


Bed of Roses, Mind the Thorns

by jenaicompris



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: AU like woah, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Retelling, fix it fic sorta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenaicompris/pseuds/jenaicompris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short time after Mr. Norrell has made his way to London, another potential pupil requests his attentions. A young woman has traveled from Ireland to seek tutelage and Childermass, for all his ways, cannot determine her exact purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. By the Hearth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea what I'm doing, if the characters are even a little in character, or what nonsense is coming out of my head. It's not beta'd. Please note that the timeline will likely follow the book's, as that is what I have a reference for but I've only seen the t.v. show as I begin writing this.

The young woman that approached Gilbert Norrell was of more than modest means, although her physical presence did not betray that she was much more than a miller’s daughter. Her hair was fiery, as was her spirit, although her visage appeared quite demure. She was blinding to Childermass for a moment, her entire person distorted by the magic surrounding and inside of her. He made no immediate mention of this to his master, who by this time still had not seemed to notice the girl in the not-so-fine dress of green.

“Sir,” the lady spoke, the single word laced with something Childermass could not place without more from her. “Mr. Norrell, sir?”

Eventually, the man called Mr. Norrell seemed to hear the girl and turned about to face her. “Yes, what is it?”

Childermass made a noise low in his throat, a dark eyebrow raised but hidden beneath the brim of his hat.

“Yes, sir, my name is Aine . I am of County Westmeath. I have travelled far for the opportunity to meet you, sir.”

“Aye,” he responded, sounding as if he was either unimpressed or unbothered. “What of it then?”

The girl, for she was hardly to her eighteenth birthday if she was a day, seemed unperturbed by his lackadaisical attitude towards her. “Sir, I would like to study beneath you. As a magician.”

Norrell snorted, and loudly, turning an incredulous face to her. “You are a _woman_ , though.”

Aine deeply struggled to keep from rolling her eyes. Instead she curtseyed low and smiled prettily. “Aye, sir, thank you for noticing.”

At this, Childermass found it impossible to hide his half-smile. He must have also made a noise of amusement, as Norrell had turned his gaze on the other man. Childermass cleared his throat and rubbed a hand across his mouth, ridding himself of the smile.

“Women cannot practice respectable magic.”

Aine opened her mouth as if to respond and then promptly closed it. “Do tell, sir, what you deem to be ‘respectable’ magic, for I assure you, I am quite capable.”

“Magic of a-” he stopped and frowned, turning an eye on her as if she had tried to manipulate him. “It is no matter. You are, as mentioned, a woman. It is impossible.”

“I assure, you, sir-”

“Good day,” he responded with a slightly curt nod of his head. Aine clenched her jaw at the disrespect; it was not something she was particularly unused to. She quite hated to employ her family’s status to get things she wanted but, by the same token, was quite glad that she had such an opportunity to do so.

She would wait, though. She would wait a few days’ time and approach him again. Three chances she would give him, to see the error of his ways. Three chances before she set herself on a new path and one that, she imagined, Mr. Gilbert Norrell would not like much at all.

After the men left the woman’s company, Norrell muttered almost incomprehensibly for some time until Childermass cleared his throat as surreptitiously as he might. “Mr. Norrell, if I may. There may be some merit to speaking to the young woman.”

“What could that be, Childermass? She is a woman.”

“Aye, sir, she is. But should you not, at the least, determine if she holds magic? If she is as she says she is, then it stands to reason that she might need your tutelage. To continue on with respectable magic.”

Norrell seemed disturbed by the other man’s logic and narrowed his eyes at the air. He was silent for a long moment before he turned his gaze to the other man. “Oh, then find her and invite the woman to call.” He seemed less than pleased at the idea and Childermass did not betray his own feelings on the matter as he tipped his hat and then his head before turning without so much as a flick of his long coat.

It was not long before he disappeared for all intents and purposes, finding a spot in the throng that left him all but faceless. It was not hard for him to spot the form of the lithe Irish girl, red hair bright among the sea of people on the London street.

He followed her as she stopped by the dressmaker’s and the grocer’s, throughout the day and from far enough back that he thoroughly believed she had no clue he was present. When she approached the door of the home she was renting, Childermass was initially surprised at the state of it. It appeared to be quite a place for someone that seemed to be of so little means.

He was more surprised, though, when she turned directly to him where he stood and smiled. “Sir, I was not given the honor of your name…but if you so wish to make my acquaintance that you should follow me through the day, I daresay I should invite you into my home.”

His brown eyes narrowed as they searched her before he stepped away from the shadows of the building he had hidden himself in. When he found himself in front of her, he bent at the waist and removed his hat. “John Childermass, ma’am.”

“Lady Aine Ò Fiachdubh, good sir.” Her hand danced in the air near his shoulder but did not make contact. Instead, it fluttered down to rest atop his hat. “No need for such formalities once we have entered my home. I am simply Aine behind those walls, and I will call you whatever you wish.”

Childermass caught his tongue in response and nodded, waiting until her hand slid from his hat before he tucked below his arm. Aine opened the door and pushed in, smiling and greeting the man and woman that waited for her there by their first names.

“William, Mr. Childermass will be joining me for tea in my study.” She paused, looking back to John. “Have you any preference for drink or food?”

 Childermass, not quite used to such a pointed question, took a moment before he shook his head.

“Right, then. Thank you, William. Betsy…the dressmaker will be dropping off a gown for me sometime soon. Please do as you do,” she smiled brightly at the other woman, evidently a few years older than the lady of the house.

“Aye, miss.” They said in agreement and Aine waved her hand a little.

“No need for the formality in front of Mr. Childermass. He is our friend.” She looked at the man directly, the edge of her cupid’s bow lips tilted up before she nodded her head a little and turned towards a hallway. “Come along, Mr. Childermass. Let us speak freely.”

He followed her and kept his eyes on the length of the back of her neck; it was the safest compromise he could make with himself. He was likely twice the age of the young woman and several levels below, according to the society in which they lived – not to mention the circumstances in which they came to know each other.

“Simply Childermass will do, Lady Ò Fiachdubh,” he finally corrected her when she closed the door over behind him. She watched him with a curious smile before extending a long-fingered hand, pale as the moon, to gesture to two chairs that awaited them near a fireplace with no fire.

“Ach,” she laughed, a tinkling and happy sound, shaking her head as she settled into the seat. He followed suit, leaving his hat crooked on the back of the chair for the time being. “Please, sir, be kind to both of us and call me Aine. At the absolute worst, ‘my lady’ will suffice however untrue it may be for now. I would like us to be friends.”

He smiled some, nearly laughed at the joke she made at her own expense or at the very least the expense of her heritage.  His mirth disappeared at the mention of friendship, however, as it put him ill-at-ease. He was not a man made for friends. The idea of calling her ‘my lady’ brought upon him a queer feeling on which he chose not to dwell.

“And what need have you of a friend like me?”

“A friend like you? What an odd thing to say. There is little doubt in my mind that you would make as amiable a friend as your Mr. Norrell might, and it is you that are here. At his behest, I imagine, but still a truth nonetheless.”

“He has asked me to seek you so that I may extend an invitation to call upon him for further discussion of your request.”

Aine seemed absolutely tickled at the idea and let out another laugh, “How deliciously _unladylike_ , for me to call upon a man. I find it quite agreeable. Perchance I will enjoy the company of your Mr. Norrell more than I originally thought. But this does not answer the question as to why you followed me so resolutely throughout my day. It would not have been so difficult to discover my lodgings, if you had only asked. Clearly you were able to find me again and so, you could have stopped me on the street.” Her smiled was bright, amusement evident in her blue eyes as she watched him. Before Childermass could comment on his activities, the man called William entered with a tray of tea and biscuits which he set down upon the table between them.

“Can I get you anything else, Aine?” William asked, a fair bit more relaxed than he had been when Childermass was first introduced to him. He was young enough, the man thought, although perhaps some years older than the other girl, Betsy.

Aine turned her attention briefly to Childermass, a thin red eyebrow lifted in question at him. He shook his head once and so Aine did the same, smiling up to her man. “No, sir, thank you William. Should anyone come calling, please do send Betsy in the side to preserve Mr. Childermass’ respectable nature.”

At this, the man whose reputation was commented upon let out a small bark of a laugh. “Should I be unrespectable, miss, I do not think your maidservant would be of much assistance.”

“Were I to disapprove of your unrespectable nature, Mr. Childermass, I daresay I would not need her assistance.” A flash in her eyes, her smile bright and wild left Childermass with that same queer feeling but the other man seemed entirely unperturbed and left them without a bow.

“Would you like a tea?” she asked as she reached for the pot, lifting it and hovering it over the cup nearest the man in the room.

“Yes, thank you.” His throat felt dry, a sudden speechlessness nearly taking him.

She poured with a small smile before dispensing her own drink. “Do you take milk and sugar, sir?”

He shook his head and she dropped spoon of sugar in her own mug before stirring it with her little finger. Lifting the cup to her lips, she smiled before taking a sip. She watched him, turned partially toward him in her chair that was already facing inward. He hadn’t moved.

“Are you afraid of what the cup might contain?” She seemed amused at the thought and put down her own cup, a small imprint of her lips on the china. She reached for his cup and took a sip, smiling as she offered him the mug. “I assure you, good sir, I have no desire to see you harmed. The tea is as innocuous as it might possibly be.”

Numbly he took the cup from her hand, fingers brushing hers and causing him to snap his eyes from her face to the delicate digits. A single freckle stood out against the light color of her otherwise unmarked flesh, set behind the nail on her left ring finger. It transfixed him quite until she pulled her hands back to reach for her own mug. He would swear until the day of his death that he did not intentionally press his lips over the light mark hers had left, although he may very well have been lying.

“Now, Mr. Childermass-”

“Simply Childermass,” he croaked, feeling not quite himself even as he lowered the tea to his lap.

Aine let out a soft sigh although she still wore her smile. “ _Childermass_ , then – a strange name, it is. But who am I to comment on such things?” She laughed lightly, that same sound like bells but softer. “I put forth the question again, what led you to follow me so?”

“It is my way,” he responded, finally coming back into himself. He did not think himself bewitched; he believed he would recognize such a thing – at least if it was by magic. “I meant to determine what sort of person you are.”

“By my shopping habits?” she laughed a little, “It is quite a good thing that I bought my poisons yesterday, then.” At the look on his face her laugh repeated and she removed one hand from her cup to wave the suggestion away. “I was merely joking, Childermass. I am very rarely quite so serious.”

“A change from Mr. Norrell, then,” he spoke quietly, as if she was not meant to hear. But she did, and she smiled.

“May I be frank with you, Childermass?”

“Please do, my lady.” The words left him before he had a moment to think better of them. He watched her, sorry that he could not do so with the aid of his hat, and was surprised at the soft smile that tugged her lips.

“I have spent what time I have had so far on this earth practicing magic. I had heard of Mr. Norrell some time ago, although was uncertain what the rumblings meant. After the…display of his abilities at Hurtfew, I knew that I must seek him out.”

“Do tell me that you do not mean the gossip about his doing laundry by magic?”

“Of course not,” Aine laughed, shaking her head. “I had not heard of such a thing, in fact. Only of the statues that he, for lack of a better phrase, brought to life. As a woman, I have had limited opportunity to study as I would like. Tutors from a young age, yes, but I was told not to pay mind to the fairy tales. It is the fairy tales, or at the least the magic surrounding them, that has drawn my interest quite.”

“And why, may I ask, is that the way of it?”

“You may ask, indeed, Childermass,” she began with a smile not quite so forthcoming as the others as she set her mug down. “When I was a young girl, my family purchased a home called Belvedere in Mullingar. The owner, the previous Earl of Belvedere, and his wife died some years before I was born. There is much mystery surrounding their relationship and the falling of the house of Rochfort. This is of, I imagine, little consequence. I imagine you will do your due diligence for your lord, though, and aim to make your job a slight sight easier if possible. Before Belvedere, we lived here in London. My family moved much. My mother had a love for exploration and my father a love for her.”

“Had, my lady?”

“My mother passed in my youth, taken by an illness no doctor could name. My father, heartbroken, passed only a few years hence. It is uncommon for an unmarried woman who has not yet come into her years to be given the privilege of carrying on her family’s estate but my father did as he could to ensure that I would not be left with nothing. As much as he loved me, though, he loved my mother more and could not bear the loss of her.”

Aine seemed disturbed by her telling, the beginning of tears plain in her eyes as Childermass watched.

“My lady, please do not distress yourself.”

She waved him off a little and wiped at her eye before straightening her back. “It is of no matter. This tale of woe will not show you what you inevitably came here to see.”

“And what do you think that is, miss?”

She smiled at him, a little dolefully, before she vacated her chair and knelt in front of the fireplace. “Come, join me, Childermass. Sit beside me but not in front. I would hate to singe your clothes.”

Amused and intrigued at both her proposition and her general lack of propriety, he settled in on his knees at her side. He could feel the warmth of her through their layers of clothing and the air that separated them. Her hands moved from her lap and she leaned a little forward, palms up and out as if she meant to warm herself by the cold hearth.

The words she murmured were not familiar in language or concept to Childermass; as he watched her, for he could not take his eyes away to look upon the logs that lie dormant for a time, a sort of distorted flash stole his vision for the briefest of moments. It was gone almost before it had come and he was left looking at the length of her pale wrists extended from the unadorned forearms, which led along the curve up to her shoulders and her neck. He did not realize that he was quite openly staring at her face until he felt a rush of heat along the side of his own.

He had missed the magic, he thought to himself as he turned to look at the fire that now roared to life in front of him as the woman at his side returned her hands to her lap.

“That, Mr. Childermass. That is why I wish to speak again to Mr. Norrell. And too, I should think, why you would make quite the friend.”


	2. A Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd. And still absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Thank you to whomever clicked on this to give me a hit, I hope you enjoyed it even a little.

Childermass left the woman with assurances that she should visit when her gown had arrived and been taken care of by Betsy the following day. These were the only assurances he had although he found himself with far more questions than he had that morning.

“What do you make of her, Childermass?”

“She is of sound mind, as much as I can tell,” he responded as he set the book down when his master began his line of questioning. “And, despite your misgivings, she is capable of magic.”

“You saw it, then? And of what sort?”

He did, in a roundabout way, see the magic – or at least her preparation for it. But was that not the way of magic? It was not as if lightning would shoot from the tips of her delicate fingers. “Aye, sir. She started a fire in her hearth.”

Norrell snorted, “Please do tell me she was not hiding flint and tinder in her sleeves.”

“Quite impossible, Mr. Norrell, as she wore none.”

“What type of woman is she, then? Not the sort to-”

“Aye, I think not, sir,” he uncharacteristically shorted his master, feeling the urge to defend the woman’s good name for reasons unknown. “She is strange, at least by the rules of polite society such as they are. It is clear that she understands them and, were she so inclined, could use them as well as any other. It is not, I think, her prerogative to do so.”

Norrell made a noise of disagreement at the notion more than the statement before he shook his head and took up at his desk. “A woman practicing magic. ‘Tis irresponsible, I say, Childermass.”

“Would it not be more irresponsible, sir, to let her do so on her own?”

Norrell frowned into his notes for a time before he sat back and spoke, more for himself than for his servant. “I suppose, if she insists upon doing so, that guiding her may be the best way to ensure that all of England does not come to ruin because of a silly girl’s fancies. Can you imagine? Were she besotted with some man, what devastation she could wreak? Oh, Childermass. It is a boon, at least then, that she is quite young. Impressionable.”

Childermass did not let on to his master in those moments that he believed the young woman to be quite anything but.

 

* * *

 

 

When the Lady Ò Fiachdubh arrived the following day, she seemed a different sort entirely. She looked every bit her part in society which, for a moment, took Childermass by surprise. He shifted only slightly in the chair he had taken up before standing completely, as was necessitated by custom. He remained where he was, however. She greeted him appropriately with a small nod of her head but offered him a smile brighter than he warranted before she turned her attention to the man of the house, who had only half-stood from his desk.

“Mr. Norrell,” Aine spoke from in front of the now-closed door, several steps across the library from where the magician sat. “I greatly appreciate your acceptance of my arrival. It is in an honor, sir.”

She was more polite than her station required of her to the man and he was less so than he ought to have been, but it was not something she nor Childermass would comment on. Aine had surmised the day before that his ego would require stroking should she wish to become his pupil and that was one thing best saved for a woman, she thought.

Put off by Norrell’s lack of societal graces, Childermass approached from his seat by the dead fire to escort her without touching to the chair in front of Norrell’s desk. She curtseyed lower than necessary in thanks before taking a seat. Childermass then skirted the desk and took up another chair, removed enough for a servant but close enough should there be a need of him. He worried more for the girl than for his master, mostly because the latter seemed entirely uninterested in the conversation that was about to take place.

“I am the only magician in England, miss,” Norrell began, watching her without seeing.

“I understand, sir. But, may I ask, what does that make me?” Childermass was amused to note that she seemed entirely demure in those moments; as if she truly wondered _what_ he could call her then.

“A witch, I imagine,” Norrell responded with flippancy.

Aine, for her part, appeared more surprised than upset. “If I may, sir, I would suggest humbly that another term would suit my, and hopefully our, purposes better. Perhaps…a magician’s apprentice? With the trials in America only a few centuries removed and such a term long-carrying… _dubious_ connotations,  I believe it may be wise to avoid it.”

“You would not, I think sir, wish to be associated with one called a ‘witch’,” Childermass offered quietly from his spot.

“If I am to be associated,” Norrell responded with a sort of grunt.

“If the lady can practice magic, it would be best served….”

Aine made no notice of being talked about as if she was not present and would not even think to request that a ‘servant’ speak otherwise.

Norrell let out a heavy sigh and frowned, his eyes finally falling on the face of the woman across from him. “You will be my apprentice and nothing more. Any magic you practice _must_ be approved by myself. Childermass will _ensure_ that you are following all necessary precautions.”

“Sir?” the man mentioned inquired.

“She will be my charge as well as yours,” Norrell clarified, not glancing to the man. “I cannot spare so much time as to ensure that she is always behaving.”

The notion of which caused Aine to wish to laugh, evident to Childermass as he saw her lips lift in a curious sort of smile. She did not, however, and merely nodded.

“Childermass has informed me of your current situation. It will not do to have you alone, then. It will be impossible to keep an eye on you as is necessary.”

“Sir?” Aine asked, truly confused by his suggestion.

“If you wish to commit yourself to the cause, you must take up in this house. I will hear no compromise.”

At this, Aine could not hold in the laugh. “Sir, unless you intend to make me your ward, I do not believe it will be looked upon politely by society.”

“Fine, then,” Norrell waved his hand, giving little care. “We will file the necessary paperwork to ensure that there will be no inappropriate talk. Does this suffice?”

Aine was, to put it mildly, perplexed but after thinking a moment, she nodded. “Yes, sir, I do suppose. I would ask that you allow me to keep my people, William and Betsy. They have been with me for quite some time. I would not wish to turn them out.”

At this, Norrell turned to Childermass. “See to it that these people are trustworthy, Childermass. We cannot have vagabonds about.”

Aine’s cheeks colored a little at the suggestion but Norrell did not seem to notice her irritation at his words. She spoke nothing of it, however.

“I will have a lawyer here by sunset to draw up the papers. “

“Childermass will accompany you,” Norrell stated.

Aine, again, suppressed her immediate reaction and only offered a nod. “Yes, sir. I would like to say, Mr. Norrell, that I will have the lawyer including a clause regarding my ability to marry.”

The man looked at her strangely, “What of it?”

“I would not have you attempt to use me as a pawn, sir.”

Norrell laughed outright at the suggestion. “I care nothing for your matrimony, girl, as long as it does not interfere with my work.”

“Very well, then, Mr. Norrell. Childermass, when you are ready, we may take our leave.”

They did, in only a few minutes. Upon the street in Hanover-square, Aine tucked her arm inside that of her shadow. “Mr. Childermass, is he always quite so…”

He smirked and did not correct her, tucking her hand into his elbow but otherwise paying no mind to her attentions. “Yes, my lady. Quite so.”

Aine snorted, a very unladylike sound that she buried against the arm of Childermass’ coat, before she righted herself and they continued on their way.

She was ignoring, but not oblivious to, the strange looks given by the occasional passersby. Childermass seemed to notice, too, but he did not keep quiet.

“Must look quite a sight, a woman like you walking arm-in-arm with a man like me.”

“I imagine it does. Two such handsome individuals often causes a stir.”

At this Childermass let out a soft bark of laughter and Aine thought his arm tightened just a little. “I very much doubt that is the cause of the glances we are receiving. Which, truth be told, is quite an unfamiliar feeling.”

“Being seen?” she responded with a smile. “And if their looks are for any other reason, fie on them. The way people dress is oftentimes no true measure of their self.”

“Then why wear such fine clothing, my lady?”

“Because it _is_ quite lovely and, moreover, because it is expected of me. If we are to be worried about my appearance of living in Mr. Norrell’s household, I should think we should be worried about my general appearance to the public as well.”

“Then should I not walk behind, as a servant is meant to?” He loosened his arm a little, as if he intended to make good on his suggestion.

She caught him fast and layered her other hand over the first on his arm. “Do not be ridiculous, Mr. Childermass. His servant you may be, but mine you are not.”

“But a servant, my lady, nonetheless.”

“It has been a long time since I have had someone with whom I may speak so freely, Mr. Childermass. I would be remiss to lose the opportunity before I have truly gained it.”

“You are but young, my lady. How can it have been so long?”

“It has been never,” she responded with a sad sort of smile and patted his arm before she dropped her second hand back to its position at her side. “If it pleases you, Mr. Childermass, I would like to continue as we are at least until it becomes improbable to do so.”

He made no response and also made no move to remove himself from her side. They walked in companionable silence for a time before Aine began a new line of conversation.

“I do apologize that Mr. Norrell sees fit to burden you with me.”

“As yet, it is not a burden.”

“Are you mocking me, sir?” she smiled a little and turned to see that he was, just a little, as well.

“I would never dare to mock a lady such as yourself.”

“Because I am to be a magician’s apprentice?”

“Hardly. I doubt you need magic to make a man come to his knees before you.”

Most women of good breeding would not have deigned respond to such a statement. As so far proven, Aine was of a different sort entirely. “I have little experience with such activities, my good sir, but I do imagine that I could conjure a few benefits to such a precarious position.”

If Childermass had been another man, he might have spluttered at such a response – certainly he had not wholly expected it. However, he merely let the smirk spread his lips a little and he lifted the hand unencumbered by hers to tip his hat a little. “As you say, miss.”

“As I say indeed,” Aine laughed, coming upon the door of the lawyer whom she intended to hire for their dealings. “We have arrived, Mr. Childermass.”

He removed his arm from herself and stepped forward, opening the door with a short bow. Aine kept her laugh to herself but felt it bubble inside of her, clearing her throat as she stepped into the office. Childermass followed behind but kept his distance this time, removing his hat as was customary.

A man, perchance around the age of Mr. Norrell with glasses not dissimilar but a height more reminiscent of Childermass, looked up from his desk. His wig was appropriately powdered, his clothes pressed and fine.

“Good afternoon, my lady. What might I do for you?” His eyes skipped to Childermass and he frowned, just slightly. “Oh my dear, I do hope you have not come for -”

“My good sir,” Aine spoke, cutting him off, which was perhaps not polite but a fair bit more polite than she imagined the words that would inevitably come from his mouth might be. “Whatever conclusions you have drawn, I assure you that you are mistaken. I am Lady Aine Ò Fiachdubh. I have brought with me Childermass, Mr. Gilbert Norrell’s man. I am here to secure your services. Mr. Norrell is of an age and has no apparent heir for his estate. He has chosen me to become his ward and asked that we might draw up a contract to make it legal and binding.”

“Why does he not simply marry you, Lady Ò Fiachdubh?” the lawyer asked and Aine felt the man behind her move, although she could not tell in what manner. She was more concerned with her ability to remain calm.

“Mr. Norrell has requested me to be his ward, sir. And he has given me the responsibility of finding a lawyer whom is competent enough to draw up a suitable contract. Should you find yourself unable to do so without further commentary on either my or Mr. Norrell’s choices, I am sure London has a plethora of such men willing to do the job.”

She thought, though she could not entirely swear to it, that she could absolutely feel Childermass smile at her back. Her words were straightforward but not harsh; her gaze, however, was murderous.

“Furthermore,” she began, advancing a step, “should you find yourself incapable of doing so without keeping that damnable look off your face when you eye Mr. Norrell’s man, I would recommend you tell me now so that I may take my leave of you, sir.”

The man, a Mr. Davies, looked equal parts perturbed at her insolence and struck by her words. He stared for a moment at her before he nodded a little and adjusted his glasses. “I can do as you ask, Lady Ò Fiachdubh.”

“Good. Gather what materials you will need and meet us at Hanover-square, Mr. Norrell’s residence.” She turned a little before turning back. “And, Mr. Davies,” she spoke, gleaning his name from the sign outside, “please do keep in mind that I am quite capable of ending our arrangement, should you not adhere to my terms.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I am not your lady, sir, and you would do well to remember that,” she spoke finally over her shoulder, Childermass already having opened the door for her. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Lady Ò Fiachdubh,” Davies called, irritation quite evident in his voice even as he began to finish the draft he had been working on before gathering his supplies.

Out on the street again, Aine made a dour face. “The nerve of that man.”

Childermass laughed, just a little. “I do believe he has never met someone quite like you. At least, most certainly, not a woman.”

“It would have done him good to do so. Please, if you would be so kind Mr. Childermass, remind me to invite that man to my wedding. And most certainly if I marry someone that would offend his delicate sensibilities.”

Childermass snorted an “Aye” before Aine fell in step beside him and took up his arm again. “But why not find another lawyer, if you find him so disagreeable?”

“I would quite like to see if he fulfills his end of the bargain. And, truth be told, I would like to see how Mr. Norrell interacts with such a man. I have a belief about your employer and I must test my theories to ensure I know quite well how to approach my dealings with him.”

“Could you not simply ask?”

“I could, Childermass. But where is the fun in that?”


	3. A Party?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that have read, those have that have left kudos, and to wazungu for commenting. The party will come next; it will have similar elements to the show but be changed to fit my brain. I am unsure how much more of the before-Strange I will be writing; I definitely have a few chapters in mind, but I know if I force myself to stick to something in particular I will lose steam and I am so enjoying this!
> 
> Still un-beta'd, although I'm trying to read through periodically and fix what I see.

Mr. Davies arrived and, fortunately or unfortunately, followed the rules set forth by Aine. The contract was drawn up and signed before the sun set on London. Childermass accompanied Aine to her rented home that evening, partially to observe Betsy and William but also partially to observe Mr.  Norrell’s new pupil.

The following few days were a flurry of adjustments; letters written and sent back to Ireland, movers taking what Norrell deemed appropriate to his lodgings, things being sent for, rooms being moved about.

When all was said and done, Aine was settled into Hanover-square within the week.

She sat in the library, her first morning after waking, sipping a tea and munching an egg near the empty fireplace with a book off to the side. Mr. Norrell had not yet arisen but Childermass, along with the rest of the household, had. He entered the library as if he did not see her and set about finding a book he wished to read. When he found it, he moved to the seat he often chose, only to seem surprised to find her sitting there.

She looked up at him, a smile quirking her lips and an eyebrow lifted. “Is something amiss, Childermass?”

“Ah, no, my lady,” he righted himself and settled in the chair near her, lifting the book but not turning his face to the pages. “How does the morning find you?”

“Well enough,” she responded before sipping her tea again, her egg long-since eaten. “And yourself, sir?”

“Aye,” he murmured, eyes shifting from her to the still-closed door. “Have you a notion to attend the party of Mrs. Godesdone?”

“If Mr. Norrell wishes,” she replied, watching him watching her. “As his ward, I must do as he wishes, of course. Have you a notion of his desires in the matter?”

“He desires not to go at all,” Childermass responded with a smile, or the nearest thing to one that he produced with any regularity. “Although I imagine your presence will be beneficial regardless of his general misgivings on social interaction.”

“I have finally found something about which Mr. Norrell and I are in agreement,” Aine snorted, finishing her tea before setting the cup back in its saucer. “Do you suppose, Mr. Childermass, that he might eventually allow me to be known as one whom practices magic?” The truth of the matter was, regardless of their contract, Norrell insisted that she only be known as his ward for the time. Despite her misgivings, she had to agree; the immediate transition from ward to pupil might set tongues wagging as to their original purpose for the alliance. She disliked it, but had to acknowledge the method behind his demands.

Childermass lowered the book along with the pretense of reading it. “I do. It will take him time, as all things do.”

“And when do you suppose that he will request to see what I can do?”

“In truth, I am surprised he has not asked as of yet.”

“He must hold your opinion in high regard,” she remarked, reaching for her own tome. “For he has agreed to quite a lot, based on the supposition that I can indeed perform magic.”

“Aye, but you can,” he reached for the teapot but Aine took it first, glancing up to him before she set to pouring a cup for him. “Unless you are far more skilled at deceiving than I would like.”

“I may be but not in this circumstance,” she smiled at him, setting the teapot down before shifting to her knees in front of the fireplace again.

“Why did you not have Lucas start the fire this morning?”

“I was warm,” she responded as she straightened out her cream-white morning dress before lifting her palms. The next words that left her mouth were familiar to him, from the first time he sat at her side in her previous lodgings. His vision distorted, as before, but less noticeably now. She let out a sigh and lowered her hands as the flames began in earnest. She hummed slightly, rubbing her palms on the skirt of her dress. “I am often restless for the heat of it.”

“The heat of what, my lady?”

Aine turned her head, her profile aligned with her shoulder as her eyes shifted to the man in the chair. “The world, I imagine. Magic. Myself. Just the _heat_ in my bed.”

Childermass could see the color high on her cheekbones as she turned more, shifting her body so that she faced him from in front of the fire. “It is no matter. All is well now,” she smiled faintly before she brought herself to her feet and moved back into her chair. “Do tell me, Mr. Childermass, how is it that we shall spend our days?”

“It would be largely up to Mr. Norrell and to you, my lady.”

Aine made a snort of disagreement as she moved to take up her tea again. “Have you learned nothing of me in the past few days, Mr. Childermass? I quite understand how it is that things should work, according to those on-looking. However, I have little care for such notions.”

“And what might you mean, then, my lady?”

“Is there nothing that _you_ wish to do? I daresay, aside from the party for which we must prepare at some point, we have much time with which to occupy ourselves however we see fit.”

“I do have some free time, generally, in the service of Mr. Norrell,” he remarked, equal parts amused and frustrated at her opinion of his relationship with his master.

“Well then, what do you _do_ with yourself?”

The smirk on his face brought color to her cheeks again, which had him force a cough to cover the chuckle bubbling up in his throat. “Whatever takes my fancy, my lady.”

“You speak in circles, Mr. Childermass,” Aine laughed a little, setting a hand against her cheek to cool it or cover her blush, the truth was not apparent. “I find it both vexing and enchanting.”

“Enchanting?” Childermass scoffed without malice, setting his tea down. His coat and hat were not to be seen at the moment, although he was a fair bit more ready for company than the young woman. She was allowed her peculiarities; society would be distressed were she to receive callers in her morning gown but she was proper for a few hours spent amongst servants and her guardian.

“’Tis what I said, is it not, Mr. Childermass?” she settled in then, seemingly back to herself, and sipped her tea. “I should like to take a walk, I think.”

“Mr. Norrell will expect you to study.”

“At my leisure,” she waved a hand dismissively. “He cares not for my magic, only to ensure that I am not using it in a way that disrupts his or England’s perception of him. Do not think me a fool, Mr. Childermass. It will take time, as you said, for him to see me as anything but a bother.”

“Spending your time on walks instead of his books will not endear you t him in your endeavors.”

Aine sighed heavily and set her tea down. “Can I not do both? Enjoy a walk and a book in the same day?”

“And a party?” Childermass prodded, one corner of his lips quirked up. “ _Mon dieu_ , my lady. You will exhaust yourself.”

His deadpan speech caused Aine to laugh again and she set her hands on the arms of the chair before she stood; Childermass, while not generally one for such things, found that he rose as the woman did as well.

“I will find myself something suitable to wear for the day and set Betsy to determining what will best serve us this evening. Would you like to accompany me on the streets, Mr. Childermass?”

“Aye, my lady. I will speak to Mr. Norrell first but I will find you when the time comes.”

“Circles!” Aine giggled slightly, throwing one hand in the air as if in defeat as she moved to the door and let herself out into the house.

She could hear Childermass’ laughter as she turned back to close the doors over behind her and did not try to hide the smile on her face that the sound had caused.

They spent the morning and early afternoon stretching their legs, as Norrell had no immediate need of either of them (or any need of Aine, ever). Some of it was spent in amiable silence and some spent chatting; Aine almost exclusively began the conversations but Childermass was not hesitant to respond when he felt so inclined. There was no strain between them although Aine insisted he not walk so far behind her as to make conversation difficult but agreed to keep at least a mildly appropriate distance between the two of them, albeit begrudgingly.

They arrived back at Hanover-square in time to wash up before taking lunch with Mr. Norrell.

Childermass was not, despite Aine’s voiced offer, invited to join them directly. He set a ways off and Aine was beginning to better understand Norrell as a man.  Mr. Norrell seemed entirely uninterested in actually speaking to Aine and so she busied herself attempting to read the spines of the books close enough for her to see.

“Have you a mind to study today?” Norrell asked, his tone suggesting irritation. The redhead turned her head toward him, her eyes dragging along eventually.

“I do, indeed, Mr. Norrell. I meant to spend much of the afternoon in your company, if you will have me.”

“You have much reading to do but I have much of my own,” came the response and Aine found that she wondered if the circular speech was originally a Norrell habit or a Childermass one.

“Do you mean to suggest that I read the books in a room other than the library, sir?”

“There is a terrace off the library,” Norrell gestured to the tall French doors tucked in a corner. It looked as if no one had ever intended to open them.

“I’ll just have to fetch my umbrella, then.”

“Is it due to rain?”

“Oh, my Mr. Norrell,” Aine laughed, the same bell-like sound that Childermass had grown accustomed to enjoying in the short few days of her acquaintance. “There are few customs in polite society that I adhere to. I quite enjoy the sunshine but my skin does not. I color quickly and fiercely.”

Childermass seemed amused by Norrell’s lack of understanding but he sat in a manner that meant his master could not see his face. Norrell did not seem to notice or care about his folly.

“If you would be so kind as to choose the book that you wish me to begin with, I will return post-haste,” Aine stood and as she did, so did Childermass. Norrell looked from the woman to the man and half-stood with a sigh before Aine departed the room again.

“She may be more trouble than she is worth,” Norrell muttered as he removed himself from his desk to locate the most innocuous of tomes that he could think of to share with her.

“Aye,” Childermass murmured, although his smile betrayed a different thought entirely.

Sometime later, when the time to prepare for the party was drawing closer and Norrell’s ward and servant had spent much of the afternoon on the terrace, Aine excused herself to make ready.

“Has she made any comment, Childermass?” Norrell asked the other man as the room was righted and the terrace doors closed over once again.

The man in mostly black had settled into a chair, lighting up his pipe for a leisurely smoke after their brief dinner. “She expressed curiosity that you had not asked her to perform any magic as of yet, sir.”

“You said you saw her,” he responded, blinking from behind his glasses. He felt as though he was appropriately dressed for the party. It was not an elegant ball. Women’s heads were filled with such nonsense. “Why should I ask to see something unnecessarily?”

“Aye, she did say you must have trust in me to agree to all the terms set forth without having seen proof of her abilities. I think, Mr. Norrell, that she wonders what you intend to do with her.”

“What I intend to do with her?” Norrell repeated, making a face. “As little as possible.”

“I know that, sir, but it may not be the way.”

“Whatever do you mean, Childermass? Speak plainly.”

“A rosebush left to grow as it may will become a wild, frightening thing,” he smiled faintly at his own comparison and pointed choice to do the opposite of his master’s direction, brown eyes shifting to the other man to watch for his reaction.

Norrell groaned quietly, frowning. “You may be right. Do you not think the studying will do for a time, then?”

“For a time, aye sir, it will. But how long remains to be seen.”

A knock at the door occurred only shortly before it was ushered open by Davey, at which point in stepped Aine in a far finer dress than even the one she wore on her first visit to Hanover-square. Betsy was a magician in her own right, at least when it came to preparing Aine for a night among others. She looked every bit the fashionable young debutante that she, in truth, was.

Childermass stood again and Norrell was already standing as Aine entered and curtseyed slightly. “Sirs, it is nearly time to leave or else we will be _more_ than fashionably late.”

“Where is it that we are going again?” Norrell asked as he righted his wig a little before he moved closer to the door. Davey had entered with Aine and so he opened the door again, Norrell bypassing his ward and exiting the library before her. Aine shook her head  a little, although her guardian did not see but Childermass did.

“Mrs. Godesdone’s party,” Aine replied, glancing over her shoulder at Childermass as if to ensure that she was correct. “It is to be the first of many, from what Childermass has informed me.”

“I would much prefer to remain here, with a book.”

“I do quite agree,” Aine responded to him as they moved through the house, for the front door and the waiting carriage. “But, I implore you Mr. Norrell, to allow me to guide you in these matters. It is a circumstance with which I am intimately familiar and I believe it would be your benefit.”

Norrell did not seem to hear her at the time, heading up to the wagon and settling in. Aine made a face at his back but righted her features as he turned around to settle. Childermass moved to her side and handed her up into the carriage before following them in. Aine had sat herself on the empty bench; she should, theoretically, have sat beside her guardian but did not feel as though it would matter for the ride. And, truth be told, she did not wish to.

Childermass seemed amused, or at the very least disconcerted, as he settled in beside her.

“She may have a point, Mr. Norrell,” Childermass offered as he lifted his walking stick to tap the roof of the carriage twice.

“I feel as if you two are conspiring against me,” the shorter man frowned a little, although it seemed in good-nature. “I do suppose you are right. Unless you require me to dance, Lady Ò Fiachdubh.”

“Why, Mr. Norrell, have you just made a joke?”

Norrell smiled a secretive sort of smile and Aine matched it as she settled beside Childermass, the warmth of him felt through her shorter sleeve and long gloves. She quite hated gloves. They made her hands itch, no matter how fine the fabric. They felt as though they could not _breathe_.

“I assure you, I am quite seriously opposed to dancing.”

“Childermass?” Aine asked, turning to look at the other man.

“I do not believe that this party is the sort of party at which my dancing would be welcomed, miss.”

“We shall have to have another, then,” she smiled conspiratorially and dropped her hand to the bench between herself and the man at her side.

“Are you suggesting that we have a party at Hanover-square?” Norrell spluttered, seemingly distraught at the idea.

“Well, if you would like us to be appropriately accepted by society, we _should_ likely arrange some sort of gathering both as a celebration of your moving to London and of our joined families. It will be another way to garner the support that you desire.”

Norrell was incredibly put out and so in a mood, “The library is not respectable enough to have a gathering.”

“Then we shall make it larger, sir,” she replied, noting that the suggestion seemed to lighten his spirits. “I have some books of my own, should you desire to include them amongst your tomes. A building project would set tongues wagging and, in this circumstance, that could only be positive. Drawing attention to your _massive_ collection which requires an _addition_ to your already _sizable_ home would certain lend credence to the belief that you are an impressive and _practical_ magician.”

Norrell was all but glowing, insomuch as he was capable of doing so, when Aine had finished her little speech. She felt a warmth against her smallest finger near Childermass but did not dare look to see that his own pinky finger, gloved as hers was, brush the side of it and then disappear as if she had imagined it entirely.

They arrived at Mrs. Godesdone’s home fashionably late and to little fanfare, Childermass exiting the coach followed by Norrell. When he offered his hand to Aine to assist her from the carriage, he was pleased to see the smile on her lips that was wholly improper but also wholly for him.  


	4. Idle Chatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the new readers for stopping by and the kind words from mzungu. Plans are developing and I have a bit of a plot. When work resumes on Monday, I will have drastically less time to write but I will try to update at least somewhat regularly.
> 
> As always, unbeta'd.

They entered the party to some murmurs but Mr. Norrell did his best to remain hidden. Aine, however, ingratiated herself amongst those around her. Mr. Norrell looked wildly uncomfortable and did not, in fact, take Aine up on her offer. She noted his disappearance from her side with a slight frown but waved it off to the boisterous woman that had slid a glass into her hand and stolen her away a little to compliment her gown.

She was relieved, however, to note that Childermass remained nearer to her. She found his eyes and flicked hers to the stairway, alighting on the short man that bobbed and weaved up them, before looking back to Childermass once more. He nodded once but maintained his position just back and to the side from her. She returned her attentions to the woman in front of her, whose name she did not recall, for a few more minutes before she excused herself.

Glancing over her shoulder to find her shadow following at an appropriate pace, she moved towards the stairs and made genial conversation as she slowly ascended. She took a drink and traded her glass for a full one, curtseying slightly in thanks before she continued up the steps. She felt a hand near her waist but knew the scent of soot and spiced ale to be a familiar one. She was surprised at his boldness but the pulsing throng of party-goers would provide enough of a justification. She was surprised _more_ that he felt any need or desire for such closeness.

She saw two men, one tall and lean with hair of orange, and one portly wearing a wig and garishly ostentatious clothes near a door. She heard Norrell’s name and so turned her attention and, although not quite obviously, her gaze. She moved to the nearest woman and struck up a polite conversation, keeping her ear to the conversation of the other men.

“Oh, Mr. Norrell and I are quite good friends. Why just this morning, I was speaking to him on the merits of magic returning to England.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Mr. Lascelles, yes.”

A voice she had not anticipated joined them, a woman’s. “But, Mr. Drawlight, did he not mention his new ward? A young lady from Ireland, it seems.”

“What I cannot fathom,” Mr. Lascelles began, “is why he would choose to make her his _ward_ and not his _wife_. I have heard that she is _quite_ a sight.”

“A sight she may be,” the woman’s voice chimed in again, “but she has quite the temper. Mr. Davies, the man that drew up the contract, told my dear friend Mary that the woman spoke more respectfully of her manservant than _to_ him, her lawyer! Can you _imagine_?”

“The Irish, they are an uncouth lot. I do suppose she is an unrefined backwoods sort of ‘ _lady’_ ,” Mr. Lascelles scoffed a little and Aine’s cheeks flared with color. The hand near her waist made contact and a body pulled up along her back, close enough to comfort but far enough away as to not be noticed if he did not stay too long.

“My lady,” his low Yorkshire-laden voice spoke near her ear but not too near.

“Yes…yes, well, you must excuse me, ma’am,” Aine’s smile was strained a little as she offered a short curtsey to the woman that had served as her alibi for eavesdropping. The woman seemed put out at first but was almost immediately distracted by something else as Childermass led her, a hand hidden along her waist and his front to her back,

Truth be told, Aine hardly noticed where Childermass led her. He skirted her around the group of chattering individuals, their faces turned otherwise, and opened a door which he urged her through.

“I am not a child,” she insisted as she turned to face him, her most recent drink long-since empty and the glass set where she pleased. He had closed the door upon entering; the room was dark save for a few candles, clearly not intended for use during the party for much of anything savory.

“Aye, no,” Childermass  bowed his head a little before proceeding into the room, closer to her. “You are a fiery woman in a strange land, with magic that my master has _insisted_ you not use around others, whom was just being insulted rather creatively.”

“ _Fiery_ ,” Aine scoffed a little, throwing her hand in the air as if distraught as she turned away from him. “I have heard all I believe one can about themselves in seventeen years. The way you say ‘fiery’ is _almost_ a compliment, Mr. Childermass.”

“Aye, my lady,” he responded with the half sort of smile-that-wasn’t, again sorry that he was not wearing his hat. He found that the woman’s ability to keep him in the open was disconcerting and only mostly unwelcome. Being seen was a strange thing for him. “A compliment but also, given your desire to remain amiable to those with whom you are currently entrenched, perhaps an issue at present. Not that I would particularly mind to see the fierceness of you. Mr. Norrell, however, might have some things to say on the subject.”

Aine felt color in her cheeks again and lifted her hand up from where it has settled at her side, as if she meant to touch his person in some manner, before she let it drift down to the carved wood of the fainting couch she stood beside. “Mr. Childermass, please remind me to thank Mr. Norrell for his insistence that you be my keeper. Mr. Lascelle’s hair may have caught unceremoniously on fire otherwise.”

“Glad to be of service, my lady,” Childermass wore a smirk that he rarely shared as he bowed his head a little, unable to bow at the waist for their closeness. When he righted himself, he folded his arms across his chest, watching her for a moment. “Have you a mind to rejoin the party?”

“Would that I did not have to,” she sighed a little and turned about, dropping herself without preamble onto the fainting couch. “How long do you suppose we can stay hidden in here until it draws undue attention?”

He stood with his hip against the back of the couch upon which she had recently rested her hand. “Those that will speak unfoundedly likely have already begun to do so, although I daresay the notions they express will more likely revolve around yourself and Mr. Norrell than one such as I.”

“Circles, Mr. Childermass,” she smiled faintly, waving her hand at him and setting it on the high side of the couch, perhaps inappropriately close to the man with whom she spoke.

“If you wish to remain here, at least for a time, I do not think it will do any more harm than is already being done without the fuel we are providing.”

“Then, Mr. Childermass, won’t you join me?” she gestured to the seat beside her, eyes raised to look up at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “We shall look for Mr. Norrell in time but I would like some moments to ourselves, if you are amenable.”

“Aye, my lady,” he tucked his coat over a little after removing himself from his half-leaning position and crossed in front of her, taking up the seat beside her. “Although, should someone enter the room to find us seated so…”

“You have such an ability to say things without actually speaking,” Aine rolled her eyes a little, one arm along the fine wood of the higher side of the couch, her body turned out so that her torso more faced her companion than the room. “If you do not wish to sit with me, Childermass, I will not ask it of you.”

“You have made no demands on my person, my lady. Until you do so, I am here by my master’s orders and my own choice. More the latter than the former, for he did not require me to sit myself upon a couch with you to keep you honest.”

“I much believe that your proximity will have the opposite effect.”

Childermass was quite surprised by such words leaving the lips of a lady, regardless of the type of woman he had known her to be in their short acquaintance. He had no response to make, too busy trying to watch her without being entirely too obvious. He watched as she sat herself straight again, her spine like a pole and her neck an extension of such; graceful, slight, and pale. He was not one to think on the beauty of women much; he enjoyed them when he had the time but he found that the most beautiful ones were often the most boring. Mr. Lascelles and whoever had spoken to him of Aine was not wrong in their assertion of her comely appearance but it was a strange thing to Childermass; from quite when he met her, he found her rather jarring. Pleasantly so, but jarring nonetheless.

“Do not look so affronted, Mr. Childermass.”

“You really should not use an honorific with my name, my lady.”

“I am careful not to do so in the presence of others. The confines of society bother me so and you deserve as much respect as anyone here.”

“What do you know of me, then, my lady?” Childermass seemed darker in that moment; not literally but Aine did note the difference in the air about him.

“Very little, I imagine, in the sense that you mean to ask me. Not much more aside from that in any other manner, to be truthful. Most of what I know about you has been supposed and likely will continue to be so for some time. I do not guess that you are quick to reveal your secrets. But I am incredibly patient.”

Childermass snorted and looked at her strangely, curiously. “I find that quite difficult to believe, my lady.”

They spent perhaps more time in that room than could be deigned appropriate, but Aine did not seem to mind the connotations of their removed nature. It was not until they heard the rumblings of the man, Drawlight, introducing their Mr. Norrell that they moved towards the door. Childermass opened it a crack, to peek out into the crowd and ascertain their positions amongst those around them.  Determining that it was safe for them to exit, he ushered her over and out before he followed. Few if any noticed the two of them leaving the set-aside room, as all were focused (if they could focus, so far gone were some) on the flamboyant showcase of England’s only magician.

When Drawlight made to introduce Mr. Norrell, he had gone from his position in the crowd. Aine sighed a little; it was both good and bad. Good, as it suggested some level of magic on his part. He could have snuck by normal means, perhaps, but such a ruckus would have drawn attention. Bad, though, because it was only putting off the inevitable.

“I will play the part, Childermass, and see you at the carriage. I imagine that Mr. Norrell would like to leave as soon as he is able to find his way to the doors again.”

Childermass nodded a little but did not move immediately, instead he watched her approach Mr. Drawlight and lay a delicate hand upon his arm.

“My good sir,” she smiled to him before letting her hand fall and turning to the party. “My good ladies and gentlemen of Mrs. Godesdone’s acquaintance, I am Lady Aine Ò Fiachdubh, ward to Mr. Norrell. He has quite the penchant for pranks, if you would believe it. It appears that this evening, his mind is set to the long game.”

Laughter came from the crowd, perhaps more than was warranted. Childermass appreciated silently what the young woman was doing and turned then to make his way to find his master.

“Lady Ò Fiachdubh!” Mr. Drawlight drawled, delight on his features but something else flashing in his eyes briefly. He, perhaps, recognized her from earlier on in the night. Or not. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do come and let us speak of Mr. Norrell, for there will be no show this evening.”

She curtseyed a little and took the offered hand of the not-gentleman, being led from the crowd on the landing towards the one on the stairs.

“I appreciate your offer, Mr. Drawlight,” she smiled and his face shifted when he realized she knew his name. At first it was concern, but only very briefly, before it reflected his ego. “However, I imagine that my guardian will be much prepared to leave if he has not already done so. I do not wish to walk back to Hanover-square.”

He laughed an exaggerated laugh that left Aine with a sour feeling despite the smile she wore. “Of course, of course, my lady.”

Aine suppressed the wince when he employed a phrase she had not given him leave to use but chose not to correct him yet. “I am certain Mr. Norrell would be amenable to having you call upon us sometime soon. At the present, however, I must excuse myself to find the carriage.”

“Yes, of course, of course,” Drawlight nodded, reminding Aine of a chicken pecking for grubs. The mental comparison made her smile again, which Drawlight took as a good sign even though he knew not why it was there. “I will most certainly do as you suggest. Have you need of an escort?”

“No, Mr. Drawlight, that is not necessary. Mr. Norrell’s man, Childermass, is bound to be about. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Aine could not get away from him quickly enough, although she forced herself to measure her steps to ensure that her distaste was not so apparent. She had been spared the unfortunate happenstance of meeting either Mr. Lascelles or the woman who had spoken so very _highly_ of her disposition.

When she exited onto the street in front of Mrs. Godesdone’s home, she found Childermass looking harried – insomuch as the man could, she imagined.

“I have not found him yet,” he offered with a wan expression, tugging open the door to the carriage and offering her his other hand.

Aine took his hand but tugged him away from the carriage, “Then let us find him, Mr. Childermass,” she murmured lowly and pulled him along to the shadows at the side of the house.

“My lady, this will not be well-regarded,” Childermass offered from her side as she relinquished his hand. He moved closer, as if with a mind to protect her should she need it.

“The evening is all but a waste in that manner,” she half-laughed, although her voice was much quieter than normal as they slunk along in the darkness.

“Why are we wandering about out here, rather than inside?”

“I have a belief, Mr. Childermass, that he has merely gotten himself lost. And, moreover, if I am not meant to be seen as a magician I cannot rightly do magic in front of a party of people.”

He snorted in response but nearly tripped over her when she bent her knees, hunching over a small puddle as she tugged the glove from her left hand. She mouthed words soundlessly before extending her index finger to the surface of the water. The ripples that extended from the tip of her digit shifted and, even in the relative darkness of the not-quite-alley, Childermass could see them moved to another point of origin entirely. Aine tilted her head back to look out around them before looking back to the puddle. She tapped it gently with her ring finger, the one with the damnable freckle, and murmured something Childermass could not understand.

She made to brush her hand on her dress after she stood but Childermass caught her hand, bringing it to the fabric over his chest. Aine watched his face curiously as he ran her finger over the fabric to dry it before releasing her, only to take up her glove to assist in her replacing it.

“It would not do to mar your fine dress, my lady,” he smirked after her fingers were properly encased again. His hat, atop his head once more, tilted over to shade his eyes enough that Aine could see mostly only the quirk of his lips.

“You are too kind,” she responded before she took steps in the direction that would lead them to Norrell.

It was not too far away that they could hear him shouting, rather impressively, for the man with whom the lady walked. Childermass glanced at her briefly before he took off in a run towards the sound.


	5. A Spell or Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those that have clicked on this since this morning! Un-beta'd but I've caught the "Hanover-square" situation and righted it, I think.

Childermass made no mention of the magic Aine had performed to help find Mr. Norrell to the man, spluttering and shaking and all manner of unhappy, as the former led the latter-most towards his carriage.

“Lady Ò Fiachdubh, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Norrell’s arm,” Childermass spoke, handing the older man off to the young woman. “I will meet you at the carriage in a moment.”

“It’s no use, he’s gone,” Norrell grumbled and, to Aine’s surprise, he walked along with her without complaint. She led him, all the while letting him appear as if he was leading, back around to the front of the house before leaving him in the darkness long enough to ensure that there would be no scene. She gathered him up again and they stepped from the shadows, Childermass on their heels in a moment.

Norrell was shaking against Aine, although from fear or anger she wasn’t sure. They made it to the carriage and the young woman was handed up, taking her position next to Norrell in the event that there were any missed onlookers.

 When the door was closed over, Childermass tapped the top of the carriage and they started with a slight jolt.

“You found nothing, I assume,” Norrell began, his voice wavering only slightly. He did not look at Aine and, truth be told, did not quite look at Childermass either.

“Aye, no,” Childermass responded, hat beside him on the empty bench. “What happened?”

“I was accosted by the yellow-curtained charlatan while the two of you were busy _making friends_.”

“Sir,” Childermass began, a quite disagreeable look on his face.

Aine meant to intercede but stopped herself as Norrell continued raving about the man and a book and the Raven King, with whom she was only marginally familiar by that name. Threats and the tale of a second magician, all poppycock according to Norrell.

“If you find his beliefs so strange and him so irreputable, what has you so distraught?”

Childermass looked at Aine as if she had grown an extra head and Norrell scoffed. “You lack the proper understanding of this affront.”

“My lord,” she frowned, using an honorific that he did not warrant or deserve, gloved hand touching his forearm only slightly before she removed it back to her person, “forgive me, but I believe he must have risked quite a lot to speak to you. If he meant only to harass, I daresay he would not risk such a thing as hanging.”

“Aye, sir,” Childermass spoke, his eyes remaining on Aine for a moment longer than he spoke before they shifted to his employer.

“It is _nonsense_ ,” Norrell spat, incensed. “I would have him hanged.”

Aine closed her eyes briefly and in the darkness of the carriage, Childermass could feel his vision shift. The redhead murmured an apology, although Childermass did not recognize it as anything but hushed Gaelic, before she reached a hand out to Mr. Norrell again. “Good sir, certainly is nothing more than a nuisance. It is best not to give any credence to his ravings by making a show of him. In my humble opinion, it may be best served to have him leave London.”

She withdrew her hand as Norrell turned to her, eyes narrowed as he surveyed her countenance. His own shifted, relaxed some and Childermass knew, without a doubt, the magic he had felt had been the woman’s. It made him feel many things, the least of which was uncomfortable, despite the fact that he actually quite _agreed_ with what she had said.

“I will write a spell. I will write a spell and send the two of you to him.”

“I do not need spells, sir,” Childermass offered, daring at glance at the woman.

“Oh, to be home,” Norrell muttered. “I will write a spell to banish him from this place and you will determine what he is about, Childermass.”

The man in black was discomforted at the notion of Aine knowing this much about him; few knew of his ability to practice magic, the sum of those persons being in that carriage entirely. For her part, she seemed not to take note of the fact. “Mr. Norrell, if you wish it, I will go. I do believe Childermass to be quite able to fulfill your request, however.”

Norrell waved his hand flippantly and was up and out of the carriage ahead of Childermass when it stopped in front of their residence. Childermass glanced to Aine before he departed the carriage, waiting for her. Norrell had already hurried inside and so he held her hand fast, speaking close to her ear.

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing directly,” she responded with a small frown, taking Childermass arm and resting against him to put on the air of needing his assistance to reach the door so that they might walk closely. “It was an incantation to help him see reason. If he had been dead-set on hanging the man, it would not have worked.”

“I dislike that you used magic against him.”

Aine sighed, “Childermass, I have just explained-”

“It is of no matter. I will not tell him this time, but do not do it again.”

Her frown deepened and they parted once they reached the stairs. The turned to him after ascending the first step, one hand on the bannister and the other on her hip. “Do not tell me you would not have done the same, had you the words.”

“That is not the point, my lady,” he all but growled, not having removed his hat which cast his face in the shadows of the candlelight. “There are rules. You shan’t cast on him, or another, again.”

“As you say, Mr. Childermass,” she responded, sounding more frustrated than agreeable, before she turned her back to him and ascended to her rooms.

 

* * *

 

 

When Aine woke the next morning, she found the house in mild disarray – apparently, overnight, Mr. Norrell had decided that they would away to Yorkshire. She made no comment on such dealings and merely inquired as to breakfast. She watched those around begin to pack and, quietly, told Betsy and William to do as they were bid but not too much. She did not believe they would leave London, at least not for some time. No point in packing only to unpack again the next day where everything had already been settled.

Childermass found Vinculus without the aid of magic and spent much of his day observing the man from the shadows. He retold the story, or most of it, to both Mr. Norrell and Aine when he returned the afternoon following the party.

He seem disturbed, which Aine noticed but Mr. Norrell did not, but finished his story with only moments to spare before Lucas entered and informed them that Misters Lascelles and Drawlight had arrived.

“What are they doing here?” Mr. Norrell frowned deeply, standing halfway over his desk.

“It was my doing,” Aine replied, “I had meant to tell you this past evening but it was forgotten amongst the other….issues you faced.”

“We will discuss this transgression when they have left,” he frowned deeply at the young woman, not clearing his face before the other two men entered. Childermass remained, silent, leaning against the wall a few paces behind the chair that Aine had taken up in.

The young woman stood in greeting when the Londoners entered and her feigned smile was impossible to call out even as she rippled with nervous energy.

“Oh, my dear Lady Ò Fiachdubh, what a pleasure it is to see you again!” Mr. Drawlight exclaimed as he entered taking her hand with a flourish and kissing the back of it. She smiled prettily, as was required of her, despite her instinct to jerk her hand back. He then held the hand with one and gestured to the tall redheaded man at his side, “This, my dear lady, is Mr. Lascelles. I do not believe you had the pleasure of meeting.”

“I daresay we have not,” Mr. Lascelles commented with a wicked sort of smile as he took the offered hand from Mr. Drawlight, who had no cause or place to do so, and bent over it before pressing his lips to the back of her knuckles. Aine suppressed the desire to wipe her hand along her dresses after the slimy feeling of the two men crept upon her; instead she smiled and offered a curtsy no lower than they deserved for their station.

“I do apologize for our abrupt departure last evening, gentlemen,” Aine offered, glancing to Mr. Norrell to see if he wished to take point. He, it appeared, did not. “There was much excitement and I am used to a much simpler life.” She looked pointedly at Mr. Lascelles but her face betrayed nothing, “I do hope that no one thought me _uncouth_ after my hasty departure.”

For his part, the man did not seem to register her word choice – Childermass, however, let out a small cough to cover an even smaller laugh from behind her.

Norrell missed it entirely and seemed to have had enough of playing pretty when he moved around the room and ushered Aine to her seat, taking up one near her and waving to the other gentlemen to sit.

“What has brought you here today?” Norrell asked, as politely as Aine thought he could manage.

“You left so hastily last night, Mr. Norrell, that we did not have a proper chance to speak. Mr. Lascelles and I had hoped to become better acquainted with you, if you would have us.”

The way Drawlight pronounced Norrell’s name (not to mention Aine’s) made her absolutely _cringe_ despite the smile she wore to cover it up. Worse than that, however, was the way that Mr. Lascelles looked equal parts bored and lecherous. She wished for all the world that she might dismiss herself and take up with Childermass on the terrace, at the very least. She knew, however, this was nigh impossible lest she prove Mr. Lascelles’ opinion of her quite correct.

Mr. Norrell expressed his discontent with his short time in London; that no one took him seriously and that he wished no more to be amongst the Londoners that made light of his magic. Mr. Lascelles chose an inopportune moment to comment on the laundry rumor, which did not endear Mr. Norrell to their cause. Mr. Drawlight insisted that he might assist Mr. Norrell in his endeavors, if only he were allowed to introduce him to society. He, Mr. Drawlight, assured Aine’s guardian that a simple spell or two would readily convince those in political power of Mr. Norrell’s relevance.

Aine wished with all her might that she could point out the folly behind all of this; most especially the fact that the men that sat before them absolutely _oozed_ a level of _need_ that was disgusting. She wished to wash herself until the feel of their presence left her, as if she were covered in a film of their deceit. She quite imagined that Childermass would say she was overreacting and Norrell would hear none of it; he held little regard for her sex as it was, let alone a woman suggesting that a man was untrustworthy whom was offering to help him achieve his goals.

The thing that caused Aine the most pause was the men’s mention of one Emma Wintertowne’s recent passing, as if speaking on the weather. It was all she could do not to remove herself from their damnable company, most especially when Mr. Norrell grew overtaken with the idea of bringing the young woman back to life.

She knew it was a disaster waiting to happen but there was nothing she could do about it, nothing at all.

The men left and by the end of it, Aine could have sworn that both Messrs. were all but salivating when it happened. The man, Lascelles, may have been attractive if he were not so utterly weasel-like. A gentleman does not speak ill of a woman one evening and then moon over her the next. Drawlight was a blathering ninny with too much of a nose too readily stuck into others’ business.

And Norrell was too eager to do good with little enough experience or understanding of people around him.

Aine frowned a little to herself, burying her nose in a book to avoid her guardian’s eyes. She knew he would be preparing, hunting, writing the names of necessary books for Lucas to go to Hurtfew and fetch He was to leave that evening in hopes of arriving back in less than two days’ time. It was a serious business and waiting too long would do them no good.

The days following, during which Mr. Norrell spent nearly every moment entrenched in his studies for the spell he would be casting, he paid no mind to Childermass and even less to Aine. As it was, the two of them spent some time discussing the Rave King, Vinculus, and the curious things the latter had said regarding the former.

When the time came to visit the corpse of Emma Wintertowne, Aine was allowed to ride in the carriage only under the suggestion that she remain absolutely silent and not exit it for any reason. She would have rather, truth be told, stayed in the library. But Mr. Norrell both suggested and restricted the action so she dressed appropriately and entered the carriage with the assistance of Childermass – who was not permitted to sit in, leaving Aine most devastatingly bored and staring at a spot between the heads of Messrs. Drawlight and Lascelles.

Norrell disappeared along with the other two up into what would be the home of Sir and Lady Pole, should the wedding commence. Aine did not dare to look after him for fear of being caught out by Lascelles.

After a long moment, she shifted to the door and cracked it a bit, curving her head around so that she might speak out the door which Childermass stood beside. She began in a whisper and he continued on in such a tone.

“Must I truly sit here, in silence?”

“Aye,” Childermass responded, hat tipped down but not far enough to shadow the edge of his lip that quirked up. “It will be an exercise in patience, my lady.”

“This is folly,” she murmured, only loud enough for the man in black to hear after a long moment of silence. “He said himself this is in opposition to his very beliefs, yet he does it.”

“Perhaps he found another way than what he originally perceived.”

“There is no other way, John,” Aine breathed, blue eyes dark and wide when he turned sharply to look at her at the use of his name. She looked almost pained at the statement, her lips turned down in the sharpest of frowns. “I know not what he intends to do but I fear our Mr. Norrell is playing with fire.”

“It is good that he has you then, is it not? Ma petite gardienne de feu.”

She allowed herself to be momentarily distracted by his abysmal French accent; the words were correct and well-pronounced but there was no ridding him of his Northern spice. She felt color in her cheeks and shook her head, “I do hope that you have not shared this little nickname with anyone, Mr. Childermass.”

“Aye, no. Although I may consider sharing it with Mr. Lascelles,” he let out a quiet laugh at the look of pure, unadulterated distaste that stole over Aine’s features at the mention of the other man.

“I beg you, do not, sir,” she smiled wanly, her nose wrinkled. “It will ruin the element of surprise when I set his trousers alight.”

The laugh that left Childermass was a fair bit louder than he had intended or she had expected; the sound of it brought a grin to Aine’s face even as she shuttered herself back up into the carriage. She shifted her eyes up to the window that she could see but regardless of how helpful it may have been, she could see nothing but the flicker of a flame. She was unsure if that was even the room in which Emma was laid to rest.

An eerie sort of feeling took her briefly and she could have _sworn_ she heard a bell, although it was not at a time that the church bell should toll, but she decided it was best not to remark on when Mr. Norrell entered the carriage looking as if he had seen a ghost.

Which, she supposed, it may have been based on the crowing of Mr. Drawlight on the steps of Walter Pole’s home. Norrell was pale and clutching at the tome he had brought with him, eyes distant as he sat across from Aine. The men that come with them were, apparently, finding their own way home and the young woman was not sad for it in the least.

Childermass stood with the carriage door open for a long moment, eyes on Norrell and mouth not quite frowning. He shifted his brown gaze to Aine and looked quite sad, she thought, before he tipped his hat just so and closed the door.

It was not the request of Mr. Norrell’s that kept her silent on the ride back to Hanover-square that evening, it was the look of a beaten man sick with worry but elated somehow as well. She memorized the look of the book in his arms and promised herself she would discover just what he had done, in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ma petite gardienne de feu" = "my little guardian of fire" (if there is a better way to say this, please feel free to tell me!)


	6. Mr. Lascelles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to byronyashley for the bookmark and comment, as well as to the new and old anonymous readers. Un-beta'd still. For anyone that is curious, 'Aine' is pronounced 'Ahn-yuh'.

For a time, all was well at Hanover-square. Mr. Norrell, recovering from whatever it was that he had done, spent much time in his library with Aine and Childermass seated here or there. Childermass attended to his business, whether it be watching over the redheaded young woman or taking care of whatever else it was that Mr. Norrell requested of him and Aine read the books that were put forth to her. She eyed the tome that Mr. Norrell kept upon his desk but had, as of yet, had a chance to look into them.

Mr. Norrell’s raising of Emma Pole, for the marriage had taken place a scant few days after her resurrection, had drawn much wanted attention for the magician. His apprentice was still considered only his ward, a thing that made her skin itch but on which she made no remark. She was learning more than she wanted to admit, although she craved even more. Childermass had inevitably been right when he questioned her degree of patience, although she would never admit it.

Despite Mr. Norrell’s initial disagreement on the matter, Aine continued to make a nuisance of herself at the Pole residence. She quite liked Emma, even when she was thrown into a fit of fancy, and was glad to have a young woman with whom she could spend _some_ of her time. Childermass, on these days, was allowed to come and go as he pleased. She needed no societal chaperone in the presence of a married woman and he had her strict promise that she would not perform any magic without him present.

Aine attended the parties that Mr. Norrell declined, speaking highly of him in every regard despite any misgivings she might have personally carried. Between her ability to win over those with whom she spoke, Mr. Drawlight’s gossip, and Sir Walter Pole’s allegiance with the spell cast upon his Emma, Mr. Norrell was gaining quite some notoriety in London and beyond.

The more magic Mr. Norrell performed, the more Aine wished to do the same. She set the fires in the house more often than not, put out the candles only to light them again, and toyed with mirrors – all under the supervision of Childermass. The man was like her shadow near constantly and, although they contented themselves to believing that it was Mr. Norrell’s direction which kept him so close, the two of them chatted more often of things outside of Hanover-square.

Aine thought it impossible not to grow closer to someone with whom she spent an inordinate amount of time and did quite enjoy the company of the oft-surly man. Childermass would not admit, least of all to himself and certainly not the woman, that he too enjoyed the walks she pestered him into for the sake of leaving the library.

Nearly a year into the arrangement of ward and guardian, Norrell had yet to directly witness Aine’s ability to do much of anything aside from sit quietly and dress finely. Messrs. Drawlight and Lascelles made a nuisance of themselves. Aine found comfort in the sometimes-silent Childermass when Lascelles chose the seat closest to her.

“What use has a woman of your…qualities for reading such things?” he asked one day, eyeing the book that she had sat down upon his entrance alongside Mr. Drawlight.

Aine shifted her gaze to him, which she had quite pointedly settled elsewhere, and offered the kindest of smiles. “It behooves me to better understand my guardian, Mr. Lascelles. There is rarely harm in reading, as long as one’s mind is sound enough to consider all possibilities and settle on the most rational.”

“It seems a pity to strain your eyes so,” he smiled, a smile meant to warm her.

She affected the appearance of one that was flattered, hand drifting idly to the book at her side. “I greatly appreciate your concern for my eyes, Mr. Lascelles, but I assure you that I can see quite clearly.”

Childermass snorted at her words, knowing quite keenly how she felt about the man that attempted to occupy her time.

“Is it quite necessary to have the servants present?” Mr. Lascelles asked pointedly, more to Norrell than to Aine.

“Yes, quite,” Aine responded firmly, despite the fact that Lascelles most certainly intended for Norrell to respond. “I am an unmarried woman and Mr. Norrell cannot possibly distract himself from his studies to ensure that my good name remains intact. He has charged Childermass with ensuring that no harm comes to me.”

“I daresay I would be more fearful of his intentions than my own.”

Childermass did not take kindly to the remark, regardless of the number of times he had said a similar thing in jest. Aine laughed, keeping the harshness from her tone despite her sore desire to unleash it. “Is that so, Mr. Lascelles? What an odd thing to say, I should think.”

“And why is that, my lady?”

Aine had to press the nails of her hand into the delicate flesh of her palm to keep from venomously replying that he had no leave to use such a phrase but instead, she smiled prettily at him. “I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of one Mrs. Bullworth, Mr. Lascelles. Quite a _lovely_ woman.”

The man’s face darkened a little and he turned then to Mr. Norrell. “Sir, I think it may be time for the gentlemen to speak. Alone.”

Aine kept from rolling her eyes and waited only a moment before Norrell lifted a hand, waving her off. Childermass hesitated a moment before Norrell nodded his head towards the door as well. The men stood, although Lascelles did so haltingly, when Aine took her leave and Childermass followed shortly behind.

The door was not closed over when Lascelles could be heard saying, “I suggest that you put a leash on that ward of yours.”

Aine clenched her jaw tightly and stopped dead, Childermass all but barreling her over as he came upon her. He set a steadying hand on her upper arm, the scent of soot and spiced ale reaching her before his words. “My lady, let us take a walk.”

“I will turn that man to ash,” Aine hissed, although her posture had relaxed at the gentle warning touch of her friend. The door closed behind them as Mr. Norrell began to say some innocuous response to the other man’s statement.

“Aye,” Childermass responded with a sort of half-smile as they began walking again, stopping near the door so that he might gather his hat and gloves and she might take up her umbrella and the damnable hand coverings for herself.

“I do hate gloves so,” she sighed dolefully as she slid her fingers into the length of them, rolling the fabric up to her elbow and repeating the process. “They are such a bore.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, my lady, you seem to have taken to a mood.”

“I hardly mind you saying much of anything, it is so rare,” she jibed, offering him a smile of her own. “And you are likely not wrong. It has been nigh on a year that I have lived with Mr. Norrell.”

“Aye.”

“And he has not _once_ asked to see what I can do. I fear he will never wish to see me grow as his pupil.”

Childermass opened the door for her and allowed her out first, falling in step closer than was likely proper but neither of them cared a wit. “Do not be discouraged, my lady. It is the way of him. He spent more time than I was with him doing little more than reading himself. It is how he thinks it ought to be done.”

“Can he not be wrong?”

Childermass laughed at that, shaking his head a little with his hat tilted down as it normally was. “Perhaps he is, but you are his pupil, my lady. You must do as he says, should you wish to continue to be so.”

“Tell me true, Mr. Childermass, do you believe he will ever grow to trust me enough to let me _practice_?”

He looked at her for a long moment; the familiar profile, unblemished porcelain skin, her fine dress. She was more than these things but not less, to be certain. He nodded a little, “Aye, my lady. It will take him time, but he will.”

“It has already been nearly a year, Mr. Childermass. I shall die an old maid,” she laughed a little, looking over at him for his response.

“Your Mr. Lascelles will certainly not let that happen.”

“I would _rather_ die an old maid!” she snorted, gripping her umbrella tighter for a moment. She slowed her walk and reached for his arm, “Promise me something, Mr. Childermass.”

“Aye,” he responded, curious.

“Should I ever even _momentarily_ consider an alliance of any sort with that man, promise me that you will have me committed to Bedlam _immediately_.”

Childermass let out a bark of a laugh at that and nodded his agreement to her terms. “Gladly.”

“So quick to rid yourself of me, Mr. Childermass?”

“’Twould not be you, given such circumstances,” he replied, bending his elbow to take her arm as a gentleman would. He knew it was not a good decision to make as they strolled, in broad daylight, through London for all to see. Mr. Norrell would not care much if at all and if the lady did not, why should he? He had grown accustomed to being _seen_ in her presence, either with her eyes or another’s.

“Could I ask another favor of you?” she asked quietly, a few paces farther down the street.

“You certainly may ask, my lady.” His tone was teasing but doting, insomuch as Childermass was ever either.

“Do not allow me to die an old maid, if it pleases you.”

In a sort of comical way, his throat ran dry. Aine’s cheeks were red, as they were from time to time in his presence. “You,” he half-croaked before clearing his throat, “I do not believe you meant to say as you did, my lady.”

“Then your belief is a wrong one,” she smiled a little shyly, an odd thing for him to see when they were not in the presence of those that she wished to win over with her charms. She thought she might have imagined the tightening of his arm around hers but was unsure, most certainly wouldn’t swear to it.

“If I live to see it, I will prevent it,” he finalized, trying very hard not to think of any other implication of her statement.

“That will suffice for now, I suppose,” she turned her head forward, still wearing quite a smile, as she leaned into him a little closer than one ought for an unmarried woman to an unrelated man.

John Childermass would have been lying if he said he did not relish the time he was able to spend with Aine; she was infuriating at times, to be certain, but she was of a mind to treat him like an equal, which he appreciated and also found exceedingly rare. He did not tend to dwell upon the outward appearance of others, as he had many more important things on his mind; but he was, in truth, a man that found himself with a particular affinity for women. Aine was all of the things that others said of her, if Childermass allowed himself to listen. She was beautiful, she was impatient, she was most _certainly_ a woman, she had a sharp tongue and a quick wit. She was too quick, sometimes, to let herself be taken to anger by the murmurings of bored wives and was perhaps more obstinate than any person Childermass had ever met before or would after.

He was not a gentleman by the standards of society but he was a _good_ man, at his core. His methods were questionable but the roots of his morals were more sound than many other’s with whom Mr. Norrell occupied his time. He dallied with some of the women in the house, those that had a mind to – he was nothing if not _accommodating_ and would not dream of taking something he wasn’t offered, at least when it came to such an intimate exchange.

To him, Aine was something else entirely. He guarded her as fiercely as he did Mr. Norrell, with a fraction of the time in her acquaintance. He thought, perhaps, he had been serving Mr. Norrell nearly as long as she had been alive. Such a disparity in ages was common among others; Walter Pole had quite a difference between himself and his wife, though not so great as that which was between Aine and Childermass. He had seen it, he was certain, somewhere. She was fast approaching eighteen, a mere few days in fact and Childermass was nearly twice that.

If Norrell thought of her at all, he might of thought of her as a daughter – if he truly understand the relationship between a father and a daughter, that is.  Childermass ought to have, he thought from time to time, but he could not bring himself to separate so from the appreciation of her person.

She teased him quite plainly, at least when they were alone, with words and meanings that still surprised him, coming from a lady. At first, he worried that he mistook her intentions and so did not respond in kind although did make it known that he was not bothered by such things as subtly as could be. When her actions did not cease, Childermass found it nigh impossible to deny himself the pleasure of seeing roses bloom in her cheeks when he chose to respond in kind.

He found that his undoing was entirely his own.

 The two wandered about, arm in arm, and either the folk on the street had grown accustomed to their strange appearance together or were simply otherwise engrossed, they received little cause for concern.

“Would that we could picnic our lunch in the square across from home,” Aine sighed a little, twirling her umbrella slightly in a fit of discontent.

“I see no harm in a picnic, my lady,” came the response as he looked over her.

“Would it be rude not to extend an invitation to those presently at Hanover-square?”

“It might be,” Childermass smiled smoothly, tilting his head to give her a look.

“Might I be rude this once then?”

“Aye, my lady.”

Aine smiled brightly, her mood apparently shifted back to a much happier place as they took a turn about the street and made their way home again. Lascelles and Drawlight had not yet left her guardian and so, not wishing to be caught out by either of them, busied herself assisting Childermass in gathering the necessary items.

It was only a short time before they were off, fortunately having missed any interaction with those holed up in the library, and across the street once more.

“If you spurn Mr. Lascelles,” Childermass began after swallowing a bite of his apple, “…I can only imagine what sort of gossip might make itself known.”

“I do not think he is foolish enough to ask directly,” Aine responded, toying with a bit of cheese. It was a haphazard picnic that followed few, if any, rules of etiquette. It was an unpopular pastime in London then, something she had much more experience in the _backwoods_ life she had led in Ireland. “At the worst, he may consider approaching Mr. Norrell on the subject but he has no rights in that regard. He cannot deny me a right nor can he attempt to make a match of me. Although I doubt Mr. Norrell the sort of man that would have a mind to do so.”

“He is, by all appearances, a good match.”

Aine snorted derisively, waving him off as she finished chewing before she swallowed to respond. “I do hope you jest, Mr. Childermass.”

“Aye, no, my lady. He is a handsome man by all accounts, he is reasonably wealthy, and has a suitable standing in society. It would be marrying down for you, that is certain, but he is a reasonable match.”

“I would rather marry Mr. Norrell,” Aine responded, entirely serious. “I would _almost_ rather marry Drawlight, if we are being honest. I find him quite distasteful, most especially in personality. He is a man of few scruples and one of _the_ most arrogant individuals I have had the displeasure of meeting. He is, I suppose, some sort of handsome but I have preferences for other sorts. His wealth and standing mean nothing to me. Less than nothing. I would rather marry that street magician, what was his name? Vinculus. I will marry _Vinculus_ before I marry _him_.”

Childermass was chuckling lowly at the show she was making; it was quiet enough that it would not disturb others but emphatic enough that Childermass knew she was _quite_ serious about the whole thing.

“I am afraid he has left London some year hence, my lady. Should I start my search for him?”

“Mr. Childermass, you are quite insufferable,” Aine rolled her eyes at him and dared to extend her hand, pressing it against his upper arm in a show of familiarity rarely displayed outside of the confines of the drawing room.

“Aye, my lady. You remind me oft,” he laughed a little, looking over to her with mischief in his eyes.

She wondered a moment, as she smiled up at him, at the man beside her. He was a gruff sort, and strange. He did not overstep, not with Aine – perhaps, in the realm of society, he did but not ever something amongst others than would let others guess at his intentions for the young woman. He was kind, in his way, and quite learned. He’d be a fool not to take advantage of the library that Norrell seemed not to care he perused. He had freer reign than she, which she quite understood – he had been in Mr. Norrell’s employ for nearly her entire life, and what she guessed was likely half of his. He was clean, even his longish fingernails were kept tidy – something that amused Aine, along with the state of his hair. He paid no mind to it, but kept it perhaps as clean as she kept her own. He was a funny man, both in nature and in speech His wit she appreciated, even when it was turned on her as in such moments that proceeded.

“Have I something on my face?” he asked curiously, his eyebrows knitted comically.

“A nose,” she responded, daring to tap the aforementioned body part with her finger. She was, perhaps and often, too familiar with him. She counted him her friend and had told him as much, despite the curious look he gave her in response.

“Is it such a nose that keeps you looking?”

“I have told you before, Mr. Childermass, that you are handsomer than you count,” she rolled her eyes a little and turned her blushing face away to find a sip of the wine they had squirrelled off for their picnic. “Much handsomer than Mr. Lascelles, by leaps and bounds.”

He snorted in response to that, burying his smile in his own glass. He should, he thought, be concerned at her attentions if only for her sake but he could not be bothered. There would come a time when a man of her station, or nearer to it at least, would pay her mind and call upon her. For now, there was little harm in indulging in the fine company she presented.

“You are much too kind, my lady.”

“Have you ever known me to be a liar? At least, I think, not when it comes to you.”

“Aye, my lady. You are rarely prone to mistruths. Flattery, however, you are more adept at than even Mr. Drawlight.”

“Flattery is based in truth or else it is worthless,” she responded with a raised eyebrow, turning to look at him again. “It does one no good to _lie_ when meaning to obtain another’s good favor.”

“You need not work to obtain my favor.”

“Circles,” Aine murmured, smiling despite herself, at the age-old joke between them. “Mr. Childermass, I implore you to take my kindness as truth and believe when I say that you are much more my man than Mr. Lascelles.”

“When put in a category with the wayward false magician, how can I be anything but flattered?”

Aine scoffed at his insolence but soon took to laughing, as she did almost exclusively – at least a true laugh, not forced as it was required – in his presence.

They continued their afternoon in pleasanter company than Mr. Norrell did, returning when the food and drink was gone to find the guests had departed. 

"And where did you get off to?" Mr. Norrell asked, although he seemed more curious on the behalf of his servant than his ward.

"A picnic," Aine answered before Mr. Childermass could. "It is a lovely day."

"You must spend more time studying, girl." Mr. Norrell frowned, adjusting his glasses where he sat behind his desk. 

"Aye, sir," she responded, deciding it was not the time to put forth an argument. "I will spend the evening here with you, most certainly. Have you another book for me to read?"

Norrell pushed a book forward on his desk, nearer to the edge and Aine moved towards him to gather it up, bowing a little and offering him a smile. 

"It seems you will have your party presently, Lady," Norrell spoke, sounding less than pleased at the idea. He had managed to put off her all but forgotten suggestion for their time together so far.

She was surprised by the statement and expressed as much. "What has changed your mind, then, Mr. Norrell?"

"Drawlight suggested that a celebration of your birthday would be quite the thing. An opportunity to better increase my standing among Parliament. Mr. Lascelles noted that it is quite necessary for a woman of your age to be properly introduced."

"I do suppose you are correct, sir. However, I believe Mr. Lacselles means it in a way that will do no one any benefit."

"Speak plainly," Norrell made a face at her as she remained, a pace back from the far edge of his desk.

"I believe that Mr. Lascelles' suggestion is in regards to my marrying age. Drawlight likely knows of the sons of the men in Parliament that are yet looking for a wife."

"Even if that is true, would you not wish to marry?"

Aine rolled her eyes, suppressing the distaste for Mr. Norrell's sudden change of heart regarding her matrimonial state. "Perhaps I do, but I doubt I will find my match among those men."

"You are my ward, Lady Ò Fiachdubh, and I quite insist upon this party."

Mr. Norrell was not prone to fits of dominance save for when it came to his books. Aine much disliked the tone he took with her but arguing would do her no good. She did not attempt to hide her frown, instead clutched the book to her chest and offered a small curtsy to him. "As you wish, my lord."

Begrudgingly, she turned away from and found the chair she frequented - the one that Childermass had long-since given up for her. He sat, as he would, in one near it but not so near it as to be uncouth should a caller arrive. Aine spoke not another word that evening, through reading or dinner, until she excused herself for bed. 

When she had gone, Childermass cleared his throat to gain the attention of his master. Norrell looked up from his notes, frowning. "What is it, Childermass?"

"The lady holds little regard for Mr. Lascelles, sir."

"I should think it does not matter," Norrell replied dismissively. "She must do as she is told."

"Aye, that is the way of things, sir. But you must remember the terms of your guardianship, I think."

"The nonsense about me not choosing to whom she ends up married? What of it, Childermass?"

"Mr. Lascelles seems rather intent on her, I should think."

"And, Childermass?"

The man in black rolled his eyes a little and shook his head, returning to his own reading. 

"You are my man and not hers, Childermass. You would do well to remember where your loyalties lie."

Childermass clenched his jaw, eyes closing briefly before he replied, "Aye, sir," and then men continued on in silence for the remainder of the evening.


	7. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than the others but I am hoping to update again today. Un-beta'd fluff.

Aine agreed with few stipulations to the party that would be held ostensibly in her honor a week hence; the preparations of which took up much of her time. Mr. Norrell had little desire or knowledge of what it should entail and, for the first time in some time, Aine took up the mantle of Lady of the House. Childermass, as always, was invaluable but it was Betsy that shone most brightly.

The thing that Aine had requested above all was to be the main compiler of the list of guests. Mr. Drawlight and Mr. Lascelles put forth names and Aine did her best to honor their suggestions; she made only two additions for the Bullworths and the Stranges, a husband and wife new to London. She had heard rumblings regarding Mrs. Bullworth’s untoward relationship with Mr. Lascelles and, while she did not entirely believe the woman had succumb as of yet, she felt it quite amusing to include her. She was a kind enough woman to begin with, if a little simpering. The Mr. Strange, she had heard, had a mind towards magic. They had arrived in London only a few days before the invitations were to be sent out – truth be told, it was not the husband of the pair that she desired at the party, but Mrs. Strange. She seemed the sort of woman that Aine would like to get to know more closely.

“Must you invite these people?” Norrell asked when she put forth the names, although not their purpose. Mr. Lascelles had expressed grave concern when Maria Bullworth was mentioned.

“I must,” Aine responded, dampening her smile. “I have asked for little say in the party and I wish these two pairs to be in attendance, should they see fit to come.”

“Mr. Lascelles has mentioned his distaste for their appearance.”

“Mr. Lascelles is neither my keeper nor, more pointedly, yours, sir,” Aine offered lightly, despite her desire to shake the man with whom she supped. Childermass smirked silently in his chair a foot or so away.

Norrell muttered something unheard by either party in attendance and Aine let it drop, as it seemed that Mr. Norrell would allow her the minimal concessions she asked for.

The evening of the party came upon them, the house a madhouse of servants and hired help to ensure that everything was perfect. Mr. Norrell, not one much for parties, seemed mildly impressed.

“At least, I should think, being in your home you might away to the library at your convenience, my lord,” Aine smiled helpfully at her guardian, patting his hand gently. She had never seen him so fine, despite his apparent discomfort quite like Childermass had never seen her look quite so lovely. For his part, the servant looked more or less the same – although, it appeared, he had taken a little care to almost tame his hair and trim his nails. Aine noticed, although Norrell did not.

Messrs. Drawlight and Lascelles were already in attendance, both of which were complimenting the party that Mr. Norrell had put together. Aine did not make a move to correct them, even when a comment was made as to how he had so brilliantly had her styled.

The evening wore on and Aine met more and more eligible young men that had her chomping at the bit to disappear as she suggested Mr. Norrell might. For his part, he seemed to almost be enjoying himself – most especially because the fathers of the bachelors were paying him more attention than he was used to receiving, even with his newfound fame.

Sir and Lady Pole were in attendance, for which Aine was overjoyed. Emma seemed no more out of sorts than normal, although she did look quite tired. She was beautiful, however, and seemed to nearly enjoy herself.

Mrs. Bullworth took up much of Mr. Lascelles’ time, for which Aine was glad; at every turn, he seemed to try and find her but the other lady would thwart his attempts. The redhead whose birthday was being celebrated silently thanked Maria every chance she got.

The two people with whom Aine wished most exclusively to speak did show; Mr. Strange was an elegant man, everything that Lascelles styled himself but genuine. He was handsome, to be certain, although Aine found herself comparing him to Childermass and noted that he fell short. Mrs. Strange was a beauty but not ostentatious and Aine decided, upon meeting her, that she had been right to invite them.

“It was very kind of you to invite us without having met us,” Mrs. Strange noted to Aine after their introductions were made. Childermass stood to the side, all but blending into the wall.

Mr. Strange nodded, “Quite so, yes. We were very surprised to receive the invitation, I must say.”

“I had heard,” Aine began, lifting her wine glass but not taking a drink, “that you had recently made the move to London. Being not of this city myself, I am quite familiar with the feeling of being out of sorts. I wished to make your acquaintance, sir and madam, in an effort to ease your move. And, truth be told, I have heard of both of you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Mr. Strange laughed, the sort of laugh that was truly amused and also slightly self-deprecating. Aine liked him quite instantly.

“I assure you, Mr. Strange, that you two are among my most desired guests.”

“Jonathan, please, my lady,” he smiled at her, bowing a little.

She did not correct his use of the phrase and smiled back, “Aine, if you please, sir.”

Mrs. Strange looked, well, strangely at her for a moment before she offered her own first name.

“What a lovely name!” Aine spoke, her attentions now fully turned to the brunette woman. “I thank you both for your attendance as well as your offer of familiarity. I daresay I have made few good friends since coming to London. I hope that will soon change.” She paused, eyes searching beyond them for the Poles. “In fact, Arabella, I would think to introduce you to one of the few that I do consider close. Lady Emma Pole. And, Jonathan, Sir Walter Pole may be of a mind to appreciate your acquaintance as well.”

Before taking several turns on the dance floor, Aine introduced the two couples to each other. She excused herself to continue on her way, as was required of her, although she found that she tired easily among the chattering of the men whom she partnered with. She wished quite desperately to step on the feet of all her partners intentionally but kept such actions to herself, finding her way from the dance floor after more turns than she had intended.

She stole herself away for a moment, not an easy thing to do when you are the object of the evening, but found herself in the drawing room with enough space to breathe.

The door opened and she sighed without looking up before she forced a smile on her face. When she lifted her gaze to the man that had entered, the smile became real.

“Mr. Childermass,” she said with a sigh of a different sort entirely, turning more towards him. “I am quite pleased it is you and no other.”

“It would not be prudent for another man,” he offered, although his own face betrayed his relief at her acceptance of him. “Although it may also not be prudent for me, either.”

“Fie on imprudence,” Aine laughed, the true laugh that reminded Childermass of bells and summer. He balked at that, internally; when had his thoughts turned so romantic?

“I wished to determine if you are quite all right.”

“Better now,” she responded, still keeping herself from moving towards him. “I think I shall sleep for a week after tonight.”

“I see you have made more friends, my lady.”

“It was, in truth, partially for Mr. Norrell’s benefit. One he hears of Jonathan – Mr. Strange, that is – of his designs on being a magician, I imagine there will needs be a conversation or two in the library. But this will ease things, if I am not mistaken.”

They fell into silence for a moment, during which Childermass crossed the room to stand somewhat close to the other occupant. He reached inside his vest and withdrew a token. A silver chain displayed when he opened his palm before her, a small vial at the end with what appeared to be a mass of red inside of it.

“It is not customary for a servant to gift a token to his master,” Childermass began, looking up to her face alight in pure joy, “…however, as Mr. Norrell has reminded me, I am _his_ man and not _yours_.”

“ _John_ ,” she breathed, looking from the gift to his face. The change in her countenance started him slightly; there was an emotion there, something he could not remember seeing so openly displayed. He had caught sight of it here and there during their exchanges, but rarely was it so firmly entrenched in her features. She had only used his Christian name one other time and he held it close to him in his memory, despite his resolution to do otherwise. “It is quite lovely, I…thank you, Mr. Childermass.”

“May I?” he asked, his voice gruff for reasons unknown. Aine seemed startled at first but nodded vehemently, turning about so that he might put the necklace on her. His hands skimmed what was bare of her neck and he did not truly believe he imagined her shiver at his touch. When he had clasped the necklace closed, his hands hovered close to her skin and she remained with her back to him for a long moment in which neither of them took a breath.

She turned eventually, having picked up the pendant. She had not noticed at first the whiteness in the vial, small flecks of something dried and crushed amongst what she now recognized as pieces of rose petals. She was curious as to the contents but did not wish to pry from the man what he would not freely tell her.

Aine let the pendant fall again, tucked between her breasts below the line of her dress. The chain was visible but complimented her neckline. She doubted many, if any, would notice.

“Mr. Childermass,” she began, lifting a hand and setting it upon his breast. He looked at her strangely, silent, as she continued. “I would very much like the dance of which we spoke some time ago, if you are amenable.”

He was taken aback, both at her forwardness and her affection. “But there is no music,” he murmured, although his hands came about her in a fashion that bespoke his agreement to her request.

“I need none,” she replied, all but breathless as her hands shifted to the appropriate spots. They were lost for several moments, taking small turns about the room and narrowly missing furniture but somehow managing to navigate it regardless. They stopped after some time, Childermass recognizing that they must rejoin the party despite Aine’s protests to the contrary.

“My lady, it will not do,” he murmured, hands falling away to his sides. He lifted one, hesitantly, and held it near her cheek but not touching. She turned her head so that his skin might grace hers and let out a sigh, as if she had never breathed before in her life.

The opening of the door startled them both and they nearly jumped a foot apart, the spell of their solitude broken by Betsy. The woman wore a smile that hinted at nothing, eyes skipping from Childermass to Aine. “My lady, Mr. Lascelles is looking for you to dance.”

The redhead sighed heavily, eyes shifting to Childermass for a long moment as she walked passed him towards the open door. “Thank you, Betsy.” The brunette nodded and opened it wider so that her mistress might pass through back to the party. She closed the door over a little and caught the dark eyes of Childermass, who had been watching Aine depart.

“As my lady was alone in the drawing room, it may benefit us that you remove yourself through another door,” Betsy all but whispered, a conspiratorial look crossing her features. Childermass, as if coming from a daze, nodded once before he took long strides across the room for the entrance occasionally used by servants, which would lead him into the kitchens.

Smiling to herself, Betsy closed over the door and turned about to return to the party or what she was allowed of it.


	8. Noses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably do something to lend credence to the concept of my being an adult, but I think I'd rather write more. I realize that my timeline is all sort of everywhere, please excuse the mess. 
> 
> Un-beta'd. I literally write them and then post them immediately, soooo there's that.

Aine spent much of the evening avoiding Mr. Lascelles and actively engaging Arabella Strange in polite conversation. Emma and Walter left earlier than Aine would have liked but Emma emphatically requested that she visit, and would she bring Arabella?

The party lasted longer than any had anticipated and, ironically, left Mr. Norrell in far better spirits than the object of the evening’s attentions. When all was said and done, Aine made little show of her evening departure and set about readying herself for bed.

She would not remove her necklace as Betsy helped her to undress and redress for sleep, a process made longer by her intricate hair for the evening. As the other young woman brushed out the long red tresses, Aine settled comfortably in her chair.

“You’ve had quite an evening, miss,” Betsy murmured as she stroked the other girl’s hair, her voice soft but curious.

“Aye, that it has been,” Aine yawned, hand over her mouth for a moment. It drifted down to the chain, the pendant below the neckline of her nightdress. She pulled it up to clutch the pendant and did not notice she was smiling until Betsy remarked upon it.

“That’s a lovely smile you wear, to match a lovely necklace.”

“Aye,” Aine sighed a little, stroking the glass with her thumb. “It is quite the gift.”

“The giver of which must hold you in high regard,” Betsy offered, no note of teasing in her voice.

“It may be my most beloved token,” Aine mused, tucking the pendant back within her dress. “Although I daresay I will spend much of my time keeping it hidden.”

“It is unfortunate that you must, my friend.”

“Aye,” Aine nodded solemnly as Betsy laid her hair against her back and shifted to set down the brush, offering her lady a hand to unnecessarily help her into bed. “It would bring about far too many questions, should it be remarked upon.”

“You have never been one to shy away from questions, if I may be so bold.”

“Your boldness is always welcome, Betsy. It’s not, in truth, myself that I worry for.”

“It is your reputation that would be called into question, though.”

“True,” Aine frowned a little as she slid beneath her blankets. “But I fear more for Mr. Norrell’s opinion of the giver. It would not do to bring undue attention to the subject.”

“Aye, my lady,” Betsy bowed a little at the waist, tucking Aine in slightly before she lifted her candle from the table at Aine’s bedside. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“The thought had not crossed my mind, friend,” Aine responded with a sleepy smile, finding the other woman’s hand with her and giving it a brief squeeze.

Betsy left her then, in the relative darkness of her room, to attend to her own business before shuffling off to bed.

Aine made good on her promise to sleep overmuch, although she did not quite make it until even the time that Mr. Norrell awoke. She dressed again in the morning before heading down to the library, as she most often did.

Childermass was nowhere to be found which was not entirely strange and so Aine ate the breakfast she was given in solitude before beginning her studies.

As the afternoon drew near and Mr. Norrell joined her, still in good spirits, gentlemen from Parliament and the navy asked to speak with the man of the house privately. With Childermass still missing, Aine dismissed herself under the pretense of calling upon her new friends.

She was received with open arms into the house that the Stranges had procured, offered tea as she sat with the husband and wife in their diminutive library.

“Do tell me,” Jonathan said as he set his tea down, “is your Mr. Norrell the man I have heard about? The magician?”

Aine nodded, smiling faintly as she settled her cup into its saucer, held in the air by her other hand. “That he is, sir. I do believe he is currently in talks with the navy at present. It is why I have been released from my studies.”

Arabella laughed slightly, “What is it that he has you study so closely?”

The redhead was surprised but elated by the other woman’s boldness and returned it with her own, “Magic, my new friend.”

The pair of them seemed quite taken aback at that and Jonathan looked briefly to his wife before he leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Is your Mr. Norrell taking pupils, then?”

“He does not truly consider myself one. I am not to be referred to as a magician, not truly ever if my understanding of the man holds true. At best, an apprentice. He does not believe a woman capable of such things. In truth, I believe he only accepted my apprenticeship and so guardianship that he might ensure I do not do much of anything.” She let out a huff of a laugh but felt lighter for having told someone, despite the fact that she had all but promised she would not. “I do beg you to keep this between us. Were Childermass here, he would have likely taken to a coughing fit some time ago.”

Both Stranges laughed at that and Jonathan remarked, “Is he the surly man that follows you about like a shadow?”

Aine, amusement evident on her face and in her voice, nodded. “Aye, sir. He is not so surly, in truth. But Mr. Norrell directed him to attend to me. Much like a nanny, in some instances. It is Mr. Norrell’s belief that I should not, at present, practice any sort of magic or really even let it be known that I _can_.”

“I was going to say, I had not heard of your abilities although I have heard of his,” Jonathan frowned, only just slightly, before his face broke into a grin. “Would you like to show us something of what you can do?”

“I very much would,” Aine responded with a sad sort of smile, “but I have promised Childermass that I will not practice magic without his presence. It is a small concession. While Mr. Norrell can be quite vexing at times, his library alone is enough of a reason to put up with his less amenable qualities.”

“Do you suppose,” Jonathan again looked to his wife briefly before settling on Aine again, “…that Mr. Norrell might agree to a private meeting with us for the purposes or proposing he undertake my tutelage?”

“I had a mind to suggest such a thing, if you so desired,” the Irish-born woman beamed at the man from Shropshire. “I have not put forth the suggestion as of yet, as the morning was interrupted by the navy men. When he is available again, I most certainly will put it in his head. The thing with Mr. Norrell is understanding quite how to go about it.”

Jonathan seemed overjoyed, although he kept his cards close enough to his chest as to not be uncouth. Arabella seemed happy for her husband, at the very least.

“And, Arabella, if I might… Emma – Lady Pole, that is, has requested that we call upon her, should to be so inclined. I know not what the day or week holds for me as of yet, but I imagine I should have some time within a few days.”

“That sounds quite lovely,” Arabella nodded with a small smile; Aine noted happily that she had not immediately paid deference to her husband, as some other women were wont to do. She was quite satisfied that her initial impression of the pair seemed to hold true.

“Good,” Aine stood after setting her tea down – Arabella and Jonathan joined her on their feet  - before she curtseyed to them, lower than their station warranted but displaying the respect and friendship she already felt for them. “I believe it may be time for me to return. Thank you for having me. I shall send word to both of you regarding our plans. And I do hope, Jonathan, that I will be present to see your own magic.”

“Most certainly,” Jonathan bowed a little and Arabella took the arm of the other woman to lead her to the door.

With kind words shared at the door, Aine found herself back on the street with a mind to return to Hanover-square. Only a few blocks from her front door, she felt a sort of niggling feeling at the back of her neck. She stopped dead and turned about, surveying the small crowd of walking Londoners. It was a fairly busy afternoon and so it took her a moment to spot the dark shadow against a tree between buildings.

She rolled her eyes slightly and fell back into step; after a moment, the familiar scent of spiced ale and soot greeted her and she shook her head. “It has been some time since you have followed me.”

“Has it?” he asked in a low voice laced with amusement.

Aine let out a laugh as she turned, looking up into the face of the man who had gifted her with the necklace tucked beneath the line of her dress. “Indeed, I suppose, I may not have noticed. Although I daresay it would be hard for you to follow me if you are walking at my side.”

“I have left your side before, my lady.”

“For which I am sorry. But I imagine it is easier to determine if I am honest when I do not believe I am being watched. Or at least, that is what Mr. Norrell would believe.”

“Do you feel watched when I am present?”

Aine shrugged a little, “I suppose not truly. I know you mean to do nothing than what you were instructed. I imagine my restrictions are somehow for my benefit, even if I cannot see the good behind it.”

“Mr. Norrell has been tasked with assisting the navy against the French,” Childermass offered by way of explanation. “We both know it would not be seen as a woman’s work. And, moreover from that, it would drive you mad to be told so.”

She laughed slightly in response, “You do know me well, Mr. Childermass.”

“Aye,” he smirked as he opened the door to Mr. Norrell’s home for her, following her inside. She was sorry to see the shape of Mr. Drawlight through the open doors of the library as she approached; it most certainly meant that Mr. Lascelles was not far behind.

“I do not know what they can hope that I do,” she heard Mr. Norrell speak as she approached. She entered the room and the men stood briefly, seating again when she waved them off. She approached Mr. Norrell but stood back.

“Where have you been, girl?” he asked with a frown, hand flitting from one book to another.

“The residence of the Stranges,” she responded before she leaned forward over a book he had abandoned. “Tell me what it is that troubles you, sir. I would that I could help.”

Mr. Lascelles began to speak but Mr. Norrell spoke over him. “They wish me to aid in the war effort, but I haven’t a clue where to begin. It is vexing.”

“Certainly, Mr. Norrell, if you are able to raise Lady Pole you can think of _something_ ,” Drawlight offered, by way of encouraging the man.

It seemed to have the opposite effect, truly, and Mr. Norrell’s already worried face soured. “That is not the thing, nor is that sort of magic helpful in this instance.”

“Well, sir, do they require reinforcements?” Aine asked tentatively, straightening from the book.

“Of course they do, silly woman,” Mr. Lascelles scoffed, which bought him a scathing look from Childermass even if the man did not see it.

“I do apologize, I am not familiar with the ways of war,” Aine apologized, her society mask firmly in place. “I merely meant to encourage Mr. Norrell’s trail of thought. It is often that what is the most clear to us is merely an illusion.”

“You speak nonsense,” Mr. Lascelles muttered and Aine felt the itch to set his hair on fire but kept herself in check, most especially when Mr. Norrell perked up.

“That is the way of it!” Mr. Norrell exclaimed, excitedly moving about the room to look for a book. He turned back to Aine with a frown, “The Joral. Where is it?”

Aine hesitated only briefly before she skirted around the edge of the desk and moved a few notes as well as another book before she held up her prize, walking back to Mr. Norrell.

“Yes, yes. I need time now, if you all would please,” Mr. Norrell did not finish his sentiment, settling into his chair at his desk with the book and waving his hand. Aine turned from him and gathered the book she had most recently been reading with an aim to take to the drawing room. Childermass ushered the other two men out before joining her, after checking in with Norrell.

“Quite clever,” Childermass offered by way of announcing himself as he settled into a chair across from Aine.

“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head up after she had finished her current sentence.

“You did not quite intentionally lead Mr. Norrell to his decision, then?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort,” she said, but her smile betrayed the truth of the matter. “I had no mind as to what would settle him, but I thought it would at least put him on the path he would most prefer.”

“He is a luckier man that he knows.”

“I only hope my influence will be able to counteract that of Messrs. Drawlight and Lascelles. I fear their intentions.”

“Aye,” Childermass responded, watching her closely. “Tell me, my lady, of what did you speak with the Stranges?”

“Of magic,” she answered honestly, closing her book over her finger and lowering it to her lap. “Of Mr. Norrell, of myself, of Mr. Strange. Of Emma Pole, as well.”

Childermass made a face at the last of it. “Please do share.”

Aine rolled her eyes. “I did not practice magic, siting your absence as the reason for it. I merely mentioned my ability, and quite by accident. Mr. Strange would style himself Mr. Norrell’s apprentice and I said I would put forth at least the notion of them meeting, when Mr. Norrell is not so occupied as he is at present. Lady Pole had asked that Mrs. Strange and I visit, when we find the time. In truth, I think that is all.”

He looked at her, hard, for a long moment before he seemed to relax in belief of her words. “Did you wish to?”

“What, Mr. Childermass?”

“Practice magic, for Mr. Strange.”

She looked at him oddly for a moment before she smiled, “I suppose I did, yes. Quite a lot, actually. But I knew quite well I would wish to tell you of it and I did not want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me, my lady?” he repeated, a nearly incredulous look taking hold of his features.

“Aye, sir. I made you a promise.”

“That you did, my lady,” he smiled, softly which felt strange, as he rested back into the chair.

“How long do you think Mr. Norrell might be occupied by this endeavor?” Aine started after a few moments of silence, during which she read Childermass more than her book.

“Quite some time, I imagine. It will be no small undertaking, regardless of which path he takes. I imagine the preparation, execution, and recuperation will be a lengthy process.”

Aine sighed dejectedly as she rested her had back against the chair and closed her eyes. With her so, Childermass allowed himself to examine her features. He could not help himself but to smile when he saw the familiar line of the chain disappearing into her bodice.

She caught him out, opening one eye and lifting an eyebrow in question. “Have I something on my face, Mr. Childermass?”

“A nose,” he responded with mischievous half-smile, a thick dark eyebrow cocked.

“Is it such a nose that keeps you looking, Mr. Childermass?” Aine fought against the smile as she recalled their exchange from over a week hence.

“Aye, my lady. ‘Tis _such a nose_ ,” he grinned uncharacteristically wide and had the book she been holding not older than the two of them combined, she had a mind to throw it at his head.


	9. Choices, Chances, Troubles, and Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the slow burn continues. I think the next chapter will be...fun. :) Thanks mzungu for the kind words of encouragement. I am, quite officially, spent for the day. Updates will likely be far rarer, as this week is quite full and work is back in swing. I'm hoping at least once a week, but I apologize in advance if it is less.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

It was nearly two years after she had joined Mr. Norrell’s household and he had _still_ not seen her do anything so much as put a fire in the fireplace.

“I think I might strangle him,” she muttered to herself as she shoved her hands into her gloves. It had been a long year, during which Mr. Norrell was quite preoccupied by the wartime efforts. Aine apologized profusely to Jonathan at every turn for Mr. Norrell’s inability to meet with him, although she did spend much time in the presence of the couple. She spent more time with Arabella on her own or with Emma which was at least a serviceable distraction.

At present, she was preparing to leave the Pole residence. Norrell had sent word to her, requesting that she return post-haste. To what end, she did not know but she made her excuses and moved to exit the house.

She felt a strange shift, something that she thought might be attributed to her need for dinner, and heard a sound that seemed familiar but was not truly something with which she could claim familiarity. When she looked up from her now-gloved hands, a man stood quite between her and the door.

He was striking, with fine features and a height that felt distorted. He was finely, if oddly dressed and she thought it strange that she had never seen him, in over a year and a half of visiting the residence.

“Good evening, sir,” Aine smiled slightly at him and curtseyed low. “I beg your pardon, but I must be on my way.”

He watched her silently and she could feel his gaze, the heat of it. It made her feel quite uncomfortable but she made no remark on it.

“What troubles you?” he asked, a voice sounding refined and sending a strange feeling through her.

“Ah, these gloves,” she responded flapping a hand in the air. “I detest them. It is no matter, sir. I appreciate your concern.”

He had not moved from the doorway and Aine had never so wished Childermass to be at her side. The man with hair like the down of a thistle, both in color and perhaps in comparative size to his head, continued to watch her closely.

“Is there nothing else?”

“Not at present, sir, but I really must-” she gestured towards the door and smiled apologetically. The man stood where he was for a long moment before he turned away from her path. She curtseyed again. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps I will see you again, when I am not so rushed.”

“Oh, yes, my lady.” The smile he wore caused the little hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end and she could swear his eyes followed her out onto the street.

When she made it into the sun, a shadow peeled itself from the side of the building and fell into step with her.

“Mr. Childermass, I would that you might accompany me into the Pole’s residence on my next lone visit.”

She could not see the strange look he gave her but she continued without prompting.

“There was a man there,” she frowned deeply and felt Childermass’ presence stiffen.

“Was he untoward?”

“No, not...no. Simply…made me feel quite strange.”

“Have you found a suitor, then?”

Aine stopped, pointedly turning to look at him. “I am quite serious, Childermass. I do not wish to be alone in his presence again. I know not who he is and I do not care to find out.”

With a furtive glance about them, Childermass took her arm gently and pulled her into a nearby alley under the cover of the darkness. He crowded her against the brick façade of the building and his presence loomed over her, his hat shielding the both of them from the sky above. “What did he do to you, my lady?” His voice was dark, rougher than even its normal gruff tone. There was a look in his eyes that both warmed and almost frightened her.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she replied emphatically, a hand lifting to worry the chain of the necklace she still wore without end. It was a great comfort to her to have and, truth be told, for him to see her wear. They had not spoken about that evening in all the time since, nor had they spoken of the gift that was exchanged. For a time, it seemed, nothing at all had changed between them. Betsy still watched them with a knowing smile when it would not be caught, but she did not ask after Childermass in the darkness of Aine’s bedroom.

“He must have done something to jar you so,” he frowned, face closer to hers than was certainly prudent. “Why will you not tell me?”

“Because he did nothing,” she sighed, lifting a hand and laying it hesitantly over his heart. “He asked me what troubles me and pressed when I said it was merely my gloves.

Childermass’ own hand lifted to cover hers, although he left it where it was against his coat. “What is it that troubles you, my lady?”

“You know quite well,” she responded with a deep frown, her heart having sped up when he took her hand but let it remain. “Mr. Norrell _still_ insists upon leaving me as nothing but his ward.”

“Is it not enough,” Childermass began, gently removing their hands from him to let hers fall to her side. He lifted his again and his gloved hand curved smoothly along her jaw and cheek, “…that you and I know, my lady?”

Aine’s breath caught in her throat at his words but more at his action and she looked up into his eyes, as if searching them for something she so desperately wished to find. It was a long moment before she found her voice again and she closed her eyes, tilting her head to rest more against his palm. She let out a heavy sigh before opening her eyes again and lifted her hand to pull his away, though she did not relinquish her hold on him immediately. “Aye, John Childermass. I suppose it may be.”

Once they disconnected, a slow process that made both of them ache although neither of them voiced as much, they made their way in silence back to Hanover-square.

When they arrived, Mr. Norrell seemed quite put out that it had taken them so very long to make the walk. Aine apologized profusely, with Messrs. Drawlight, Lascelles, and Strange present along with the latter’s wife. Mr. Norrell had _not_ intimated that he would extend an invitation to the Stranges to meet that evening and Aine was nonplussed to discover that he had done so. She was not sorry to see them, but she was sorry to see the other two men.

“Mr. Strange has come to show us what he can do,” Lascelles said with an air of boredom that he made no attempts to hide. “There is no such other magician, however. I expect parlor tricks.”

Aine had little mind to suppress her cringe but thought better of it at the look Childermass passed her. The evening proceeded, and relatively quickly, when Mr. Strange offered and Mr. Norrell (and Childermass) quite readily prompted him to continue.

By the time the guests had all left, the ward of Mr. Norrell thought to make good on her earlier idea of ending the magician’s life.

Aine was, to put it mildly, furious when Mr. Norrell agreed to take Mr. Strange on as a pupil without much preamble. Certainly Mr. Strange had a gift and, when she stopped thinking of herself for a moment, she was glad for him. Mr. Norrell, as she had pointed out, had a wealth of knowledge. He did not have the imagination, she thought, of Mr. Strange but he certainly had decades of study which he could impart.

It was quite evident that she was seething, although Mr. Norrell either did not care or did not take notice. He was, to be honest, quite engrossed in the lesson plans he was making for the man and the thrill of the idea of one whom he might speak with.

Aine was nearly pacing a trench in the floor before the fireplace, face nearly as red as her hair and knuckles white as bone as she clenched her fists against her crossed arms.

“Do stop that, would you?” Norrell spoke without looking up. Aine stopped dead, fingernails digging into the flesh of her upper arms. She thought her teeth might shatter with how hard she clenched her jaw.

Childermass watched her coolly from his chair and noted that one of her hands shifter to her necklace, pulling the pendant from the front of her dress and holding it tightly. Her eyes closed as he looked at her and her nostrils flared as she took calming breaths.

It was some time before her chest stopped rising and falling so dramatically, at which point she tucked the pendant back into its home near her heart. Her eyes opened and she let her hands fall to her sides, red marks not quite gone from the skin on her arms. The blush of rage was slowly dissipating from her cheeks and when she turned her eyes to Childermass, he was startled by what he saw.

Tears.

Childermass _growled_ , though quietly enough that it did not seem that either of the other two occupants of the room noticed. He stood then, setting his book aside that he had not actually been paying much attention to, and moved to take Aine’s arm.

“The Lady has not had a chance to eat yet, Mr. Norrell. I will take her to the kitchens.” His voice was rough, anger disguised into something else that Aine could not name did not have a mind to.

Norrell grunted in response, a strange thing for him, even as he waved them off. Childermass took her by the elbow, skin against skin, and Aine was surprised she managed to keep her tears at bay until the door closed behind them.

“I cannot abide this,” she hissed in a whisper, tears of rage falling from her red-rimmed blue eyes. “I feel as though I am _dying_ here.”

Childermass jaw was set and he looked over her head and to the side before he led her, still by the elbow, into the drawing room. He set her in a chair and left her in the dark to find another that might bring her something to eat; he was not wrong, he knew, in that she needed _something_.

When he returned, the room was alight with candles and the fireplace. Every responsible thing that could be set ablaze had been and Aine sat, breathing heavily, in the chair he had left her.

Her eyes shifted to his when he came to stand directly in front of her and leaned down, hands bracketing her arms on the rests of the chair.

“My lady,” he murmured, a wild sort of look his eyes. “Please…please, try and calm yourself.”

She was all but proving Norrell right and she knew it; would a man do the same in her position and _rage_ so against the injustice being done to her? Unlikely, she realized as Childermass’ thumbs dared brush against the red half-moons of her arms. Aine leaned forward, her head coming to rest against his chin. The stubble there scratched at her bare forehead but she paid it no mind. She let out a long sigh and with it went the flames, casting the room into darkness.

Childermass slid his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, and fit against the sides of her neck. He pulled his chin from her, only to tilt his head down. His lips brushed against her forehead, a strand or two of her hair mixing in the darkness of his mustache but briefly. He could smell her then; the oils and soaps she used, and something that was quite distinctly _her._

The roses and the wildness.

Mr. Norrell had not heeded Childermass’ warning, all those months ago, and now the girl was paying the price.

When he pulled his lips from her, Aine let out a shaky breath that quickly turned onto a sob. Childermass righted himself and brought her along with him, pulling her against him despite every notion of their positions in society screaming against it. He held her close, as a husband might hold his wife, with a hand mussing the back of her hair and her tears staining the front of his vest. She clung to him as she cried, although her tears were very nearly silent, and he held her just as tightly back.

If he was honest with himself, it was just as much for him as it was for her. He had been a little frightened at first when he had returned to the room, concerned that she may have unleashed upon more than the wicks and wood meant for flame. He was comforted to find that she still had enough presence of mind not to set the house alight and hoped that Mr. Norrell would see the error of his ways, and soon. For all of their sakes.

It was, most fortunately, Betsy that came with a tray of cheese and meat (along with much-desired wine) to find them so entangled. Despite the impropriety of their closeness, there was nothing particularly untoward about their current state of affairs. Betsy seemed to pay no mind and left the tray with a short bow, closing the door and proceeded to stand outside of it to ensure that they were not disturbed.

It was some time later, when Aine had not one tear left to cry, that Childermass settled her back into the chair and urge her to eat while he lit some of the candles to illuminate at least their positions. He started the fire again as well, as the room had grown drafty since Aine’s fire had gone out.

“I have half a mind to leave,” Aine spoke eventually, having eating all the food that Betsy had brought and started in on the wine. “But I know I cannot.”

“Why?” Childermass asked, more to the second than the first. He did not let his countenance betray the negative feelings he had towards the suggestion.

“Don’t be a fool,” she sighed, looking to him. She did not extrapolate and he did not dare ask as he saw her hand fiddle with her necklace once more.

When all was said and done for the evening, Childermass left Aine in the care of Betsy and returned to Mr. Norrell to see what he might do for the oblivious magician.

The day that followed, Aine did not leave her bed. Childermass wore a frown the entire day, looking up to the door at every entrance without a word. Norrell was entrenched in his writing and reading and no callers, thankfully, came for any of them. The day _after_ that, Aine chose again not to join the rest of the house. Childermass grew concerned for the woman and asked Betsy after her state.

“She is merely tired,” the other woman offered, glancing to Norrell briefly before returning her gaze to Childermass. “I believe she will be set to rights tomorrow.”

“Good,” Childermass responded, unable to think of what else he might say. Betsy left when she had finished cleaning up from their lunch, leaving Childermass alone with Norrell once again.

“Norrell,” the servant spoke and waited.

Eventually the magician looked up from his book, adjusted his glasses slightly, and frowned across the room at the other. “Yes, what is it, Childermass?”

All manner of thing came to mind for the man but instead he simply asked if there was something with which he could aid the older man. They went about their day and night quite as they had before Aine had come to them.

When Aine rejoined the men on the third day, it was as if nothing at all had transpired. She appeared to be in good spirits and quite well-rested, the marks gone from her arms and no tell-tale signs of the moments she had shared with Childermass. She wore the necklace as she always had and, despite a general feeling of unease brought upon him, he was glad to note that she seemed to be no worse for wear.

As was their way, they did not speak on what had transpired between them. When she went to visit Emma Pole again, with Arabella to join sometime later, Aine quite insisted that he join her. He did so without question and sat, silently, in the corner of the Pole’s drawing room as Aine and Emma chatted away.

Emma was growing ever sicker, it seemed – not in body, but in mind. Her periods of lucidity seemed to be coming less frequently but Aine would not be deterred. When Emma became distraught, she began to speak in what sounded like nonsense tales. Every so often, they would sound familiar. She was sorry that she could not ease the woman’s suffering with more than her presence.

Arabella arrived and noted Childermass’ presence, offering him a pleasant hello which he returned with a nod. Aine did not comment on his presence and the women continued on for some time, before Aine had to excuse herself for the day. Arabella intended to stay a bit longer; Aine thought to mention the man with the hair like a thistle but decided against it. She had not spoken of him since originally telling Childermass and endeavored to forget him entirely.

They made their way back to Hanover-square and the next several weeks continued on in much the same way. Aine _seemed_ quite herself, although she felt _off_ to Childermass. Her wildness seemed to be buried deeper than before and he did what he could to pester it out of her. He had her light things that did not need it, find things with magic that he had hidden for that express purpose.

One afternoon, locked away in the library from the winter chill as they awaited Mr. Strange to come and Mr. Norrell to dismiss Aine, she caught his gaze over their respective books.

Mr. Norrell was not about yet; he had remained in his room so far that morning but would, presumably, rise soon.

“Mr. Childermass,” Aine began, lowering her book to her lap. “I have a curiosity to set forth to you.”

“Aye, my lady?”

Reaching into her bodice, she withdrew the pendant of her necklace and tilted her head a little to look down as she pulled it up to investigate. “I can see and identify the rose petals quite clearly. I will not ask you as to their meaning, but what I cannot determine is the other portion of the contents.” She lowered the necklace some and lifted her gaze to his. “Will you tell me what it is?”

Childermass’ lips tugged, just slightly, up at the edges and he looked back at her with a cocked brow. “Perhaps, my lady.”

Aine snorted and tucked the pendant back into her bodice, although she kept her hand on the chain to worry it with her thumb. “You are insufferable, Mr. Childermass.”

“Quite,” he responded, bowing his head and raising his book to hide a too-wide smile.

Many weeks passed in such a manner and it seemed, for the time, Aine had chosen to silently accept her position in the household as nothing more than Mr. Norrell’s ward. She continued to read and study and practice her magic with Childermass which, in truth, had not been expressly forbidden.

Mr. Lascelles continued to make a nuisance of himself, accompanied by Drawlight. Sometime ago, they had put it into Mr. Norrell’s head that a book ought to be written. Mr. Lascelles took it upon himself to do so and used this as an opportunity to take up much more of Aine’s time than she would have liked. She insisted that she had nothing of merit to share with him but he would not let her be, no matter what she told him.

Perhaps three years or so into the whole arrangement, Mr. Strange had ingratiated himself with men that Norrell had not quite managed to win over. The elder magician was working on a naval blockade when he was not busy working with Strange or ignoring Aine, but Mr. Strange had an air about him. He was, at least in Aine’s opinion, the better companion of the two.

When the suggestion that Jonathan go to aid the Duke of Wellington was initially brought up, Mr. Norrell disagreed so whole-heartedly with it that Aine was quite impressed. He was rarely so outwardly disagreeable, even if he was _such_ a bore. In all honesty, Aine cared for Mr. Norrell. She did not necessarily appreciate everything he did or said, but she doubted her ability to entirely disapprove of any one with whom she spent as much time as she did him. Except, perhaps, Lascelles.

It was the intervention of Lascelles and Drawlight that changed Mr. Norrell’s mind. They were playing him, which was evident to both Aine and Childermass as they sat in the library, but Aine honestly believed that it would be to England’s (and Jonathan’s) benefit that the other man go to war. He needed the opportunity to spread his wings, to turn a phrase, and this would be the only situation in which he might be able to do so.

Aine spent more time with Arabella after Jonathan left, with several of Mr. Norrell’s books much to his chagrin. At first, she thought, it was to comfort the woman and then she remembered it was because she just genuinely enjoyed her company.

They continued to spend much time in the company of Emma, despite the fact that the woman was often more distraught than not. Mr. Norrell grew ever more disagreeable on the subject and even went so far as to outright _forbid_ that Aine attend Emma any more.

This, of course, did not go over well.


	10. My Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the fluff. The fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed, and there will be even MORE. Not soon, but it will happen. Also...don't be sad, the things that are unresolved will be in time.
> 
> Thanks to all the new readers! I've purchased the book and look forward to reading it soon. 
> 
> As always, un-beta'd.

She, of course, did as she was told – but not lightly. She sent letters with Arabella to ensure that Emma knew she still thought of her often, and begged Mrs. Strange to tell her of their mutual friend at every opportunity. She worried that Mr. Norrell might deny her the other woman’s friendship as well, with the nonsense that Lascelles and Drawlight were putting in his ear.

Sometime after Jonathan had left and Arabella had mentioned repeatedly over the months that had passed that she had no word from her husband, Aine found herself walking towards the Strange’s home on a sunny afternoon. A young man, whom she had only just seen leave the front stoop of the aforementioned house, disappeared briefly into an alley. He stalled for a few moments, only to return to the light again and carry on his way.

Aine frowned deeply but did not make mention of this when she greeted Arabella, who had a tale of a tall man with strange hair and a particular mode of dress. To this, Aine still did not speak of her meeting with a similar man (and at the Pole residence as well). She loved her friend dearly but thought she had best keep her cards close to her chest, at least for the time being. She wanted to know more before she spoke out of turn and created a mountain from a molehill.

That evening, after she was meant to be fast asleep and the rest of the house was as well, Aine crept down the stairs and into the library. With a single candle to light her way, she shuffled over to the desk of her guardian.

Her initial intent was to study the book that Mr. Norrell had held all those nights ago when he returned from bringing Emma Pole back from the dead. She had taken to it on some nights such as this or on the rare occasion that Mr. Norrell left the manor without her, but her study was made difficult by the servants about the house. Most especially Childermass.

She frowned, not seeing the book set upon the desk and to the left as it usually was. On a lark, she tugged at the top drawer in hopes of finding it.

The magician-that-wasn't let out a quiet gasp at what she saw.

Aine leaned over the open drawer, hands sliding in among the missives that had been stolen from those they were sent to. She frowned deeply, lifting a few to inspect the names of those they were meant for. Before she saw the names, she already had a thought on the matter – the boy in the alley had already set her mind turning, although she had desperately hoped she was wrong.

“Bell,” she sighed, seeing the name of Mrs. Strange. She lifted another and noted Mr. Strange’s name in elegant scrawl. “Oh, Mr. Norrell, what have you _done_.”

Shaking her head, she removed her hands from the drawer. Lifting one to her face, she tapped her chin as she stared at the ill-begotten contents. She had a few choices but could not decide which path to take.

She was startled from her thoughts at the presence of a familiar hand on the wood of the desk to her side and then the warmth of a body near her. She had not heard him enter or seen him move about the room, behind her or in front.

“My lady,” his voice ghosted over her exposed neck, the smell of soot and spiced ale carried into her lungs on her next breath. She both stiffened and relaxed, hand clenching at her side as his moved to gently close the drawer over.

“Did you do this?” she asked in a whisper, already knowing the answer.  A man in the shadows of the alley to receive the missives, meant for a husband off at war. She remained as she was, although both of her hands had fallen to the desk in front of her. His hands bracketed hers, the fabric of his coat doing nothing to shield her bare arms from the heat of him. His body behind hers was close enough for her to feel him there but not forced against her fully.

“Aye, my lady,” came his response and his hands slid almost imperceptibly closer. “Mr. Norrell requested to know of the goings-on and to keep the interception of Mr. Strange’s letters secret, it was imperative that I gather Mrs. Strange’s as well.”

“…But why not then send them, once whatever could be gleaned had been?”

Childermass did not have an answer to her question, especially not one that would ease her worry or frustration. His hands all but covered hers, thumbs curved under the lip of the desk to press against the drawer – as if he meant to ensure that she would not open in again. “Norrell cannot know that you have discovered this.”

“I could cast a spell and present it as though nothing was amiss.”

“If he were to discover…” Childermass frowned; Aine could feel his hair against the base of her neck.

“Do you not think I am capable, sir?” she breathed, his thumbs shifting from the drawer to skirt the undersides of her wrists.

“Oh, quite capable,” was his response, his words against her ear.

Aine swallowed slowly, closing her eyes against her frustration and the other feelings that his closeness brought to her. “Are you trying to distract me, sir?”

“That was not my intention, my lady,” said his words, but his body told another story. “I find myself quite incapable of moving from my present location.” In fact, his body drew closer. It aligned with hers, enveloping her.

“Are you suggesting that you have been bewitched?”

“Not by magic, although you transfix me quite,” and she could feel more than just his words against her skin. She gasped quietly at the feel of his lips against the shell of her ear.

“ _Sir_ ,” she sighed, her body relaxing against his, eyes closing again.

“These three years I have kept myself occupied,” his low voice reverberated inside of her, setting her toes to curl in her slippers. “If you tell me I am wrong, that I am alone in these feelings, I will leave you now and never speak on it again.”

“No,” she blurted without thinking, hands shifting and curving to slide her fingers between his. The noise he made set her on fire. The sigh she exhaled was shaky, her words soft but sure. “Should you leave me now, I will never forgive you.”

His own fingers curled to capture hers and his face shifted, head bent low. His lips drew shapes on her skin as his words seared into her mind. “Then I shan’t, my lady.”

Aine was shaking, though not from any imagined draft, and closed her eyes against the feelings that bloomed anew in her chest. Her breath was ragged although she worked to steady it as she lifted his hands, entwined with hers, to curve around her body. His sharp inhale surprised her nearly as much as his presence had. This man was different from the one that served as her guardian’s watchman. He was the man that sat with her on picnics, walked with her for the fun of it, eyed her over the top of a book when he suspected she was not looking.

This man was not the man that Norrell knew, nor many others truthfully. This man was entirely for Aine, whether or not she knew or believed as much. Childermass held her closely to him, leaving her breathless as he buried his face in the hair that was held back by a loose braid. She noted, with some amusement, that his own chest rose and fell at erratic intervals. She slid her arms from beneath his, instead taking up residence along them. Holding her breath as if expecting him to disappear, she turned about in his embrace and ended with her hands laid gently against the chest of his vest. She lifted one, still barely breathing, and plucked his hat from his head to set it in the chair she had nudged aside upon approaching the desk.

He backed her the short space into the desk and let out a groan at the contact it caused, one arm curved up along her back to hold her and the other shifting along her light nightdress to curve against her cheek.

“My lady,” he spoke in a low murmur, his already deep voice rumbling through her like thunder. His hand shifted and his thumb skipped over to trace the full, delicate line of her lips. He smelled, as always, of spiced ale and soot. She would cherish the scents for all her life. “I fear what may happen, should I do as I wish in this moment.”

“What…” she started, the word barely a whisper between them. She swallowed, eyes finding his and shining brightly in the dim room. The candlelight was settled behind her and to the side a little on the desk, casting shadows on his face. “…what is it that you wish, my lord?”

Had Childermass a mind to stop himself, or continue the line of conversation that he had started, all rational thought drifted from him at the words she used for him and the way that she spoke them. It was a quick movement that slid his hand into her hair and pulled her close, fierceness to the kiss that had Aine gasping into his mouth. He was rough in his need but when the contact was made, it all melted into the tender way he looked at her when neither of them realized he was watching.

She was unpracticed as one might expect but found that all things were made easier when given the right partner; her hands wrinkled the front of his vest in her fingers and he held her close enough to restrict her breathing. She was not sorry for any of it, even the redness that would surely follow the brush his scruffy facial hair against her fair skin. He broke first, to allow her to breathe, but she would not let him go far. She pulled him back by way of her hands holding his face gently between them and he half-chuckled at her antics.

When they parted again, he found her hands with his own and pulled them gently to rest against his chest again. “My lady… _Aine_ …I…I fear I have done you wrong.”

Aine smiled up at him, sliding her hands up to grip his shoulders. He swore he could see stars in her eyes and the sky in her smile. “…although I have no true point of comparison, I daresay you have done nothing of the sort.”

A smirk twitched at his smile and his hands drifted, returning to her waist. He could almost feel her skin; he could most certainly feel the heat of it, beneath her delicate shift. He suppressed the shiver that the knowledge of her closeness brought upon him, daring to close his eyes as he leaned his forehead down against hers. “It was selfish of me to touch you so,” he managed to whisper, words ghosting across her. She instinctively held him closer, as if worried he might turn about and leave. She pulled her head back a little, enough so that she might press her lips to his again.

“Then be selfish,” she sighed, kissing him again and again. He fell into it and they were lost for several moments, the desk pressed into the high part of her legs and his body nearly causing her to bend backwards.

She gasped as his hand trailed along her side, skimming the curve her breast made beneath the fabric and he jumped back, as if burned. He groaned audibly from half a foot away when he turned to look at her, lighted by the singular candle but looking wild and fierce and so incredibly _perfect_ that it hurt his heart. He did not have the presence of mind to wonder, again, when he had become so damnably romantic.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, quietly, as she rested her hands back against the desktop. She looked up at him with wide eyes, bright cheeks, and dewy lips. Again, he groaned.

“Aye, no, my lady,” his voice was a rumble, throaty with an emotion he would not speak aloud. “I cannot…I _will not_ despoil you.” He halted and turned to her sharply; he looked, to her, quite pained. “No matter how _desperately_ I wish to do so.” The words were a growl; a primal sort of sound that pooled more heat low in her belly and made her feel as though she might swoon.

“But, my-”

He lifted a hand to silence her, a long finger pressed lightly against her lips. “Please, my lady, do not continue. I am a man of much resolve but you test me so.” He sighed deeply, hand shifting to hold her cheek. He tilted her head back and crowded her against the desk, looking down into her eyes. “I would give you more than this.”

“More than what?” she managed, but only barely. She could not imagine what _more_ there was to be had.

“More than a few stolen moments, more than such potential dishonor,” he shook his head, thumb stroking along her cheekbone. “I would have you blissful, not regretful.”

“I would never regret,” she responded quietly, as serious as he had ever seen her. “I had thought…I had thought this impossible, in truth.”

“What, my lady?” He relaxed his hold on her enough so that she might move back to look up at him more comfortably.

“That you might…consider me as I consider you,” she smiled at him, a strange sort of smile that seemed almost self-conscious. “I had hopes, of course…” she lifted a hand to toy with the pendant that had come loose, hanging between her breasts on the outside of her gown. “But I quite thought they were the fancy of a silly young woman.”

“You are many things, but rarely silly,” he responded with an amused sort of look, thumb still running gently against her skin. “My lady…I have much to say to you, but this evening will not do.” She looked distraught at this but he smiled, the small and comforting gesture that he reserved exclusively for her. “…Might I elicit a vow from you?”

Aine’s heart seemed to still in her chest at his word choice before a teasing smile took hold of her lips. “A _promise_ , my lord? Are you asking me for a _promise_?”

He rolled his eyes and huffed out a laugh, pulling her close again to steal yet another kiss. “Aye, my lady. A promise, if you insist upon calling it that.”

“Aye, my lord,” she murmured against his lips as she took advantage of his closeness. “I would give you the moon, had you a mind to request it.”

He laughed more emphatically at that but shook his head. He pulled away, sorry to disconnect but needing to so that he might truly, _eventually_ depart. “When I next come to you in the night, wear your hair free.”

Aine’s cheeks burst into color and she truly _giggled_ at his request, mouth gone dry. The smile that split her face was bright and beautiful; what an image for him to leave her with. He dared another kiss, although this one pressed to her forehead, before he tipped his hat atop his head and left her.

She stood silently in the near-darkness, staring into the spot that he had previously occupied. Where it not for the swollen feeling of her lips, even until the morning, she might have thought she imagined the entire exchange.


	11. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! 
> 
> Thank you to the new readers, the new guest kudos, to byronyashley and mzungu for your continued support, and the kind words/comments from NikkiWHO!
> 
> I give you rage!Aine and rage!Norrell. This will not be their last appearances.
> 
> P.S. I have potentially 19ish more chapters planned. That could grow or lessen, depending on the muse while I'm actually writing. I should probably say I have 21 more Big Ideas to tie the whole thing together, and usually there's one or two per chapter, haha.

Aine allowed herself to sleep somewhat longer than was necessary the morning that followed. She seemed quite herself when she joined Norrell, up early, and Childermass to break their night-long fast. They chatted for a time before Norrell left again to change into receiving clothes. Aine had chosen to do so before joining them and so, sat idle for a short while in the silent presence of the man that kept her cheeks pink.

They shared not a word between them until Childermass cleared his throat, Norrell some several minutes removed.

“How did you sleep, my lady?” He watched as he would any other morning, although the sly quirk of his lip betrayed him.

“Quite well, sir, I thank you,” she responded blandly before she shifted her gaze to him over the rim of her coffee cup. “However, I had the _strangest_ of dreams.”

When she was no more forthcoming about this ‘dream’, he prompted with an “Oh?”

Aine took on the air of someone quite confounded by her nighttime vision and nodded emphatically, lowering her cup to her lap. “Yes, sir. I had a dream that I was visited by a dashing man in black.” She glanced at him, noting that he had tipped is head down a little as he would, were he wearing his hat, to hide his expression. “I must say. The strangest thing was quite how real it felt.”

“And this man did not try to make a deal with you, did he?” Childermass asked, trying to hide the amusement in his voice with feigned concern.

“Aye, no – well, that is not _entirely_ the truth. He did elicit a _promise_ from me,” she smirked when Childermass coughed to cover a laugh, her eyes shifting the doorway as Norrell reappeared and she lifted her cup to her lips. If he was anyone else, he might’ve noticed the glances they shared – but he was not and, so, did not.

Childermass had to be off before too long to gather the letter of Mrs. Strange, not that he announced it as such. Aine busied herself with her books, as she did most every day. She and Norrell did not share a word in his absence. When he returned, a stack of mail in his hand, Aine kept her head down for a moment.

She was waiting for an opening. A few beats, and she had it.

“Here’s for you,” Childermass offered as he extended a few letters towards her. She appeared to finish a line, although she was merely trying to avoid scrutiny, before she reached her hand out for the missives. She took them with a small whisper of thanks and set to opening them before she ‘hmm’ed. Although she did not see it, Childermass raised an eyebrow. Norrell barely seemed to notice her.

“Oh, Mr. Norrell,” Aine started then, after her initial attempt went unnoticed. “I have a curiosity to set forth to you.”

He made a noise that indicated that he did not want to know but that she might proceed regardless. Childermass was watching her very, _very_ closely.

“My friend Arabella…Ahh, Mrs. Strange,” she corrected herself, waving a hand to dismiss her familiarity with the other woman. Norrell stiffened a little at the name, although others may not have noticed both Aine and Childermass did. “She has been writing to her husband nearly daily for all the months he has been gone.”

“Yes? What of it?” Norrell groused; if Aine had not known he was at fault, she might have guessed it with such a reaction. He was not cool under pressure, a trait which she herself could not lay much claim to depending on the circumstances.

“She has yet to receive word back from him and it has her quite worried. I was wondering if you knew of a spell-”

“No,” he cut her off, frowning quite deeply, eyes shifting quickly to Childermass as if to ask him if the other man had breathed a word of the arrangement. Childermass looked as idle a he might, had he no knowledge whatsoever. He had a resolve to be praised, and in spades.

“Certainly, sir – a spell to find what has been lost? I believe I read _something_ on the subject a few months hence, but I cannot recall who, exactly, wrote it.”

Norrell seemed torn for a moment. He was glad that she recalled the spell, on some level – although irritated that she could not recall the name of the author. In truth, she knew _exactly_ the spell but she did not want to catch Mr. Norrell out, as it would cause so many more problems for her and for him than she desired. Certainly she was frustrated with him for his actions, but she cared more for the man than she would likely admit and she did not believe that his intent was to harm either Mr. or Mrs. Strange in any real way. He was just a man that could not often see the forest for the trees.

“It is possible, of course, that he simply has not written,” Childermass offered, his gaze speaking for more to her than his words. “Men at war are oft times too busy for such things.”

“Aye,” Aine sighed a little, eyes narrowed just a little as she turned her attention to the other man. “Although Mr. Strange seems the type to at least have written _once_ in these many months. It would ease Mrs. Strange’s worry if I were to cast the spell. At least then she would know if he had, indeed, written.”

The spell she spoke of was one with which she was _quite_ familiar, although not on a scale such as she was suggesting and Childermass knew it. He knew it because he had _taught_ it to her.

“Out of the question,” Norrell responded, shaking his head with his jaw clenched between his words. “Even if I were to recall the specific spell you are inquiring after, you are not permitted to perform it.”

Aine colored from her neck to the tips of her ears and she swallowed quite audibly, hands clenched so tightly and crumpled up her letters – one from Emma disguised as if it were from Ireland, and some true letters from her home.

“In truth, I would prefer it that you no longer occupied yourself with Mrs. Strange,” Mr. Norrell continued and Aine stood swiftly, letters falling to the ground at her feet.

“ _Mr_. _Norrell_ -” she started before she cut herself off, letting out a deep breath before she turned to look at him. “I understand your concern over my studies but I _assure you_ that I am learning quite well, despite your _resolute_ desire not to see me practice anything.”

Childermass watched her closely, having moved half a step in her direction from the post he had taken up along the wall between them.

Mr. Norrell made a move to speak but Aine silenced him with a look, turning more fully towards him and crossing the room to lean over his desk with her hands pressed against the papers there.

“I have taken your direction at every turn, _Mr. Norrell_. I have been a dutiful pupil and have not, these three years, made much more than a remark at your lack of _proper tutelage_. I have given _my life_ to this, _respectable magic_. I have given up _one_ friend at your behest. I will not do so again.” She wished, very deeply, to look at the drawer that contained the letters she knew where there as she next spoke. She, however, kept her eyes locked on his. “You are my guardian in little more than name for the purposes of our arrangement. It behooves me to remind you of this fact. I will drop the subject of the letters _for the moment_ however, should she continue to _not receive her husband’s words_ I will _most assuredly_ cast the spell on my own, your rules be damned. And I will not, _under any circumstances_ , allow you to sever my ties with her. I will leave your home before I do so.”

Childermass had moved closer, although he hovered nearly a foot away from the pair of them. Mr. Norrell looked equal parts enraged and frightened. His anger, however, won out. “Such betrayal in my own home! You say this woman is your friend and that I am barely your guardian, but do I mean nothing else to you?”

“Do not think to toy with my emotions,” Aine hissed, leaning over her hands. “I quite imagine you mean more to me than I to you, as you have made it _quite clear_ that I am little more than an annoyance. I believe you once likened me to a ‘yippy dog about your feet’, Mr. Norrell.” She sneered a little, losing herself to her emotions as she leaned back. “This bitch has a bite, Mr. Norrell. I would not think to use it against you, as I _would_ have considered you my friend.”

As she had leaned, her trinket had fallen from the front of her dress. Mr. Norrell caught sight of it and narrowed his eyes at the bauble. He heard her words but found himself incapable of looking at her face, working out the contents of it. Without thinking as to his actions, he had reached a hand out to take the pendant between his fingers and _pull_.

Childermass moved faster than Aine did – she had raised her hand to slap the shorter, older man as the chain of her necklace snapped but Childermass caught her wrist, eyes wild. Norrell hardly seemed to notice the goings-on as he brought the glass vial up to his face, shoving his glasses closer to his wig to inspect it.

He stroked his thumb along the glass as Childermass lowered Aine’s hand, staring hard back into her face.

“Who gave this to you?” Norrell asked, frowning deeply although he did not look up.

“It is of no consequence,” Aine responded, voice shaking with rage.

“ _Who gave this to you_?” Norrell repeated, voice louder as he tilted his head back to look at her. She had, she thought, never seen him so upset.

“It is none of your business!” she shrilled, slamming her hand atop the edge of the desk.

“GET OUT!” Norrell bellowed insomuch as he was capable of doing so, throwing the necklace at the woman before he jerked his arm to point at the door.

While she was not directly afraid of him, she was more afraid that somehow he _knew_ who had given her the necklace. She didn’t dare look at Childermass, who was quite handedly guiding her towards the door as she clutched the broken gift to the skin bared by her dress.

Childermass left her at the door with a look that bespoke his own displeasure with her, although she could not determine exactly _why_ he was displeased, and closed the door over. Aine moved loudly to the door before openly and closing it with a resounding slam. She remained inside, however, and tiptoed back to the library before settling herself against the wall beside the closed doors.

“…know about this?” Mr. Norrell spoke, muffled but loud enough for Aine to hear if she focused hard.

Aine could not hear Childermass’ response, lower and quieter than the other man’s.

“She is insufferable! I want her gone. This is…”

Again, the other man’s words were lost to Aine.

“I cannot have such flagrant displays of disobedience shoved in my face!” Anything else that was said, by either man, was lost for a time. “The pendant. Did you know of it? Do you know who gave it to her?”

Aine heard mumblings, but couldn’t make out the other man’s words.

“There’s Eve’s root, I’d swear to it. She has a lover! The girl is _flaunting_ herself for some man, I’m sure of it!”

Childermass’ voice raised enough for Aine to hear, “I would doubt it, sir.”

“Don’t be a fool! Certainly you know what the root means, Childermass.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then how can you begin to tell me that she does _not_ have a lover!”

“Mr. Norrell, she is never unattended. It would be impossible for her to keep such a thing from you.”

Silence, or at least Aine could not hear what happened next. Their voices trailed off to an indiscernible volume and so Aine, quietly, moved herself away from the doors. She moved back quietly to the front door and repeated her actions of earlier, with a calmer closing, before making no attempt to hide her footsteps back to the library.

She knocked on the door and, when called to enter, she did so with a frown of contrition on her face.

“Mr. Norrell,” she began, eyes avoiding Childermass and moving straight to the magician.

“What is it?” The fire had gone from him, although he made no move to hide his displeasure at the sight of her.

“I wish to apologize.”

“Quite right, too,” he muttered in response from his position halfway across the room. Aine continued in, closing the door behind her.

“Do not mistake me, sir,” she frowned deeply, folding her arms – still holding the necklace tightly in one fist – “I will not apologize for the sentiments I expressed. I do, however, apologize for the way in which I behaved. I fear the moment got the best of me and so I behaved poorly, regardless of the relationship between us.”

Norrell seemed equal parts put-out by her first statement and appreciative of her second. It was half an apology at best, but more than he had truthfully expected. He did not offer his own attempt to make amends as he looked back at her, however. “Have you a mind to repair your necklace?”

She seemed taken aback at the question and let her arms drop enough that she might lift the necklace a little and inspect it. A link on the fine chain had broken and her lips turned down. She looked back up to him and nodded. “Yes, I thought to take it to the silversmith.”

“No need,” Norrell waved his hand for her to come forward and she did so, following him as he moved to his desk. “Put it there,” he pointed to a relatively clear spot on the desktop. “Do you remember the spells of Ruddington?”

She made a face at that, laying the necklace out as she tried to recall and also glean his meaning. Childermass stood, more relaxed than he had been, with his arms over his chest as he leaned against the nearest wall.

“Aye, sir,” she nodded a little, hand hovering a little over the necklace.

“Then fix it yourself,” he retorted, eyes wide as if waiting to see what she would do.

She was, to put it mildly, surprised. What had Childermass said to him? She did not dare a glance at the other man as she recalled the specific spell that she thought would work the best. She whispered something in Irish, not that either man in attendance would know, before she continued with the spell and touched her index finger to one side of the chain, spreading her middle out to touch the other side. They slithered together and joined noiselessly.

“Well,” Norrell began, blinking at her from behind his glasses. “It appears the last three years have _not_ been for naught, have they?”

Aine _still_ wanted to slap him but she felt a massive weight shift from her shoulders; he had _seen_ her magic, however paltry. And, for what it was worth, appeared to be at least mildly impressed. She was not entirely assuaged, and the matter of the letters still burned in the back of her mind. But, for the moment, as she lifted the necklace to return it to its place near her heart, she was sated.

“Now that this mess is behind us,” Norrell spoke after a moment, skirting around his desk to the other side, “…we should resume our studies.”

While rather incredibly surprised at the massive shift from nary a half an hour prior, Aine did as she was bade and took up the book she had set down in favor of her letters – which, she noted, Childermass had smoothed and slid inside the cover of her book.

The air had changed in the room; it was charged, but not entirely by anger. Something else hovered there, something that no one in the company could put their finger on. It was not entirely unpleasant but it  _was_ most unsettling to those in attendance.

 _Eve’s root_ , she repeated in her mind, wishing sorely to look it up or at the very least **ask** as to its meaning but she could not, for then they would know that she had been listening. She shifted her blue eyes to Childermass, who had taken up his normal seat near but not too near, and noticed that he had been watching her for what appeared to be some time.

He nodded his head once at her before tilting his face to the book that sat propped in his lap. Aine was not sure that she was looking forward to their next chance to speak freely, whenever that opportunity would present itself.


	12. Tell Me Your Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Ryder for the kudos and comment; to mzungu, NikkiWHO, and byronyashley for your comments and continued support; to the new readers and kudos-givers.
> 
> I'm hoping the muse cooperates and I am able to get a second chapter out today!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: feeling of being controlled, small amount of blood, hand wound.

Some time later in the day, Aine excused herself – and so, Childermass – to attend to Mrs. Strange, whom had invited her over for an evening tête-à-tête. Childermass had something to do for Mr. Norrell but would accompany her to the house of the Stranges.

“That was a fool’s errand,” Childermass mumbled gruffly from her side as they made their way onto the street, in the direction of the Strange residence. “Although cleverly executed at the onset, why the ruse? You know the spell.”

Aine sighed heavily and spared a long-suffering glance to her companion. “Despite Mr. Norrell’s apparent belief to the contrary, I do care for the insufferable man. I wish no harm to him in this, merely that the letters be returned. Although the situation escalated beyond what I intended, he knows he has been caught out to some degree. I am _hoping_ he will see the error of his ways and take care of it without further prompting.”

She was not certain how Childermass took her confession, for he immediately changed the subject. “Are you all right, my lady?”

She nodded a little, holding her pendant between long fingers over her heart. “Well enough. While the entire situation left much to be desired, it ended with a decent resolution. Although, in truth, I am _worried_ about Mr. Norrell.”

“Are you not worried for yourself, my lady?”

“In what manner? For the moment he has given up on asking after my necklace, which was truly the most concerning thing. I promised you that I would conjure no magic against him but, were he to determine the giver of my gift and act poorly, that is a promise I would break. _Gladly_.”

“My lady,” he breathed, almost reverent. With the evening quite dark save for the lighting of the streetlamps of the fraction of a moon, they were all but shrouded in the waning day. He caught her by the elbow and tugged her gently into the shadows, crowding her against the brick façade like a streetwalker.

“I would give it all up,” Aine spoke in a whisper, knowing they were cloaked almost exclusively in darkness and Childermass’ magic. “For you, John Childermass. I would swear it off ‘til the end of time, if you asked. But I could not abide your pain or even discomfort on  my behalf.”

Childermass was clearly affected by her words, shifting one hand to cup her cheek as he curved his body over hers in order to rest his forehead against her own. He closed his eyes, finger sliding back to toy with the delicate strands of her hair. His words ghosted over her skin, her eyes searching his face as he spoke so close to her. “I haven’t the words of a poet as you deserve them, my sweet, fierce, _impossible_ lady.”

“Your touch is sweeter than the words from any pen, my lord.”

Childermass growled possessively at that, hand fully buried in the pin labyrinth of her hair and the other sneaking its way to press into her lower back. This pulled her hips nearer to his as he adjusted his head, mouth more aligned with her ear, allowing his stubble to muss her hair and scratch gently against her cheek. “Would that I might show you the…fullness of my sweetness, then.”

Aine was fairly convinced that she was dying in the brief time that he held her after uttering such a sentiment, and in just his way. While she had no practical experience in such matters, she was friends with all types of women.  If there was one thing that women did no matter their station, it was talk – sharing things with friends was a beloved pastime of those in Aine’s acquaintance.

She clung to him, hands hidden in the darkness of his coat, and her words were swallowed by a breathy moan. He captured her lips fiercely and he could have sworn the stars of the night sky lived in her eyes when he pulled back to find them.

They stood, entangled, in charged silence after the kiss ended.

“Would that we might remain like this,” she sighed a little, knowing that they soon needed to carry on their way.

“Do not say that too loudly, my lady, or else a fairy may turn us into trees,” he smirked at her, brushing her hair gently from her cheek. He turned his head as she let out a quiet laugh, ensuring that they would not be caught, before he pulled himself away and she followed.

She was shaking, although not entirely visibly, when she entered Mrs. Strange’s parlor.

“Are you well?” Arabella asked when they briefly hugged before they settled into their respective chairs

“Quite,” Aine smiled, dismissing the other’s concern with a twitch of her lips. “Mr. Norrell and I had a minor disagreement, as we will. It is of no true matter.” She paused and spared a cursory glance around the room. She knew quite well she would not find what she looked for. Frowning a little, she raised an eyebrow at her friend. “Still no word from Jonathan?”

Arabella sighed dejectedly, shaking her head as she fiddled with her fingers in her lap. “No, not a one. Tell me true, Aine, do you think he is all right?”

“Oh, yes, quite,” the redhead nodded fervently and reached across the space between them, folding her hand over the other woman’s. “Do not fret, my friend. Your husband will come home to you from the Peninsula.”

The queerest thing happened in the next few moments; she felt as if nothing happened at all but also, quite strangely, as if no time had passed but that it did all the same. She could have sworn she heard a bell and an odd _pulling_ sensation but the last thing she remembered was saying the word ‘Peninsula’ and Arabella continued as if nothing at all had happened, as if no time had passed, and Aine made no mention of the noise.

She was quite disquieted for some time that evening, during which she did not discuss her knowledge of Mr. Norrell’s discretions or the queer feeling that had overcome her earlier that evening.

Arabella left her for a moment, quite late in the evening when the sliver of a moon was high, to procure some wine for them. The servants had gone to bed at her behest, some hours before. In truth, Arabella wanted the company but Aine would not dare leave without Childermass at such a late hour.

The bell sound struck her ears again and Aine frowned deeply, turning about in her chair as if to search for the source of the sound. When she twisted about again, she gasped audibly at the appearance of the man with the strange silver-white hair she had seen so long ago at the residence of Emma Pole.

“Sir!” she squeaked, eyes wide as her hands gripped the armrests of her chair. “You startled me. What…what brings you to the home of my friend at such an hour?” She stood slowly when she regained her composure, feeling protective of her friend and _very_ disconcerted by the presence of the other being.

The man’s eyes were like sap, although only in the manner by which they held her. His voice enveloped her, as if either or both of them were enchanted. “What troubles you, my lady?”

At the first, she felt as though she might break and unload upon this stranger everything – from the sorrow and confusion over the loss of her parents, her anger at Mr. Norrell, and her feelings for the man that dressed almost entirely in black.

She caught herself before she could, however, and felt strange for it, narrowing her eyes as she looked him over. “I am troubled, sir, as to why you are in the sitting room of my dear friend while her husband is away. And, moreover, how you came to be so placed.” Speaking troubled her, as if a difficulty; saying the words felt right but wrong and she did not like it.

The man’ eyebrows, which called to mind what she had referred to as ‘ghosty caterpillars’ in her youth, furrowed slightly above the bridge of his fine nose. His features were most definitely too sharp altogether but each on their own was pleasant enough. “Is there nothing _else_ on your mind, my lady?”

Aine watched him for a long moment, feeling queasy and light-headed but also inexplicably lovely. When she spoke again, she had put a hand on the arm of the chair she had vacated that she might steady herself. “I do find myself curious as to why you use such a familiar phrase with me when we have not given each other our names.”

The man seemed quite displeased at this query and the discomfort she felt intensified. She reached her hand up and clutched at the pendant from Childermass, standing her ground as best she could. _Where_ was Arabella?

“I have no other name with which to address you, my lady.”

“Aye,” she responded, biting her tongue against the intense _need_ to offer her name to him. It bubbled up inside of her, the desire to reveal it to him, but she fought fiercely against it. “Nor I you, sir.”

His way of responding was to approach her and reach out, as if to take the vial from her fingers. He stopped short, frowning deeply as his hand hovered too near her chest. “Such a cheap bauble, my lady. Certainly you would prefer something… _finer_.”

His wrist twisted as if calling something from his sleeve, although Aine had her doubts as to the origins of the silvery necklace now entwined with his long fingers. Almost too long, she thought with a small frown. But perhaps that was the queer feeling in her head.

“I thank you for the offer sir, as It is a fine gift indeed, but I would much rather have your name.” When she spoke, it was barely a croak at first – as if something had stolen her voice.

He seemed not at all pleased by this and _crushed_ the necklace to dust in his fingers, eyes cold. “You _wound_ me, my lady. And for what? A piece of iron dressed in silver?”

 _Iron?_ she thought. What a curious choice. And how could this strange man know such a thing? Was he simply mad?

“Sir, I do not wish to offend but it may be best if you take your leave before my friend returns from the kitchens.” Although her words were kind enough, her tone brokered no disagreement as  her voice found its strength again.

“There will come a time, my lady, during which you will _beg_ for my presence.” He sneered at her and she felt the queasiness grow in the pit of her stomach. He bowed curtly. “I will have your troubles and your name.”

“Perhaps, but not today. Good night, sir,” Aine finalized, eyes hard despite her dinner’s insistence on journeying up her throat.

She watched him turn stifled and drift through the doorway. Less than a full minute gone, she collapsed back itno her chair and brought that hand that did not grip her pendant to her lips.

Only a few heartbeats later and Arabella entered the parlor carrying wine and two glasses – she stopped short as she caught site of her friend’s strained expression.

“Aine? Is something the matter?”

The redhead tilted her head up to look at the other woman. She was torn between telling her friend the truth and protecting her. Something was off about the visitor and Aine did not believe he had been invited, at least not by Arabella, to call.

“I feel quite unwell,” she responded with a weak smile. “I think I just need a moment to breathe, is all.”

The remainder of the evening progressed rather innocuously and Aine did not mention the gentleman with the thistledown hair to her companion. When Childermass arrived to collect her, smelling more heavily of soot than spice, they were hardly in the street before he took her arm.

“Something troubles you.” It was a statement coated in sincere concern – not an attempt to gain her favor.

“Aye,” she held close to him, turning them into an alcove near the end of the Strange home. “The man from the Pole residence. The one that made me feel quite odd? He was in Arabella’s parlor. Many strange and inexplicable things happened but more than anything, I fear this evening to leave my friend unattended. I wish to ward her home from unwanted visitors.”

As Childermass watched her speak, most would not have noticed the shift in his posture or his expression. Aine, however, knew him quite well enough to sense the discomfort he now exuded. “Does she know of this?”

“Not a whit, at least I do not believe it to be so. She was not in the room when he spoke to me.”

“That is an odd way to say it. What of when he entered? Do you believe she saw him come?”

“Aye, no, I cannot speak as to him entering, as it seemed that he just… _appeared_.” Her hand clasped around her pendant, she leaned agains the dingy wall behind her. Her eyes cast to his face as he hovered over her, a gloved hand pressed to the wall beside her head. “I wish that I could simply _banish_ him but I do not believe it possible.”

“Oh, pleae, my lady – do speak plainly.” The way he spoke, body curved around her as if to protect her, was nearly pained by the need to help her.

“I do not wholly believe he is as he appears. There’s nothing to be done but…if you would grant me the allowance, I will case the ward.”

She was closed to him and he did not like it. Her worry made his grow, her insistent at remaining silent on the true matter at hand made him itch with concern. His dark eyes searched her light ones in the relative darkness of their hiding spot, the hand at his side clenching into a fist of frustration as he could not draw from her what she needed.

“I wish you would unburden yourself, my lady,” he spoke gruffly but pulled back from her, giving her room to move. “Forgive me, but it is your safety that I am worried over and not that of Mrs. Strange.”

“I understand, Childermass,” she sighed a little, glancing furtively about in the darkness as if to measure their solitude.  “I do not know what I can tell you that will assuage your concerns, however. I feel much comforted by your presence.” She stopped her looking about and turned back to him, the hand that did not hold onto her necklace resting over his heart. “I would spend every moment of my life in it, were I able.”

“My lady…” he breathed, his hand coming to cover hers. He looked as if he meant to speak again but before he had the opportunity, Aine slid her hand away.

“I fear that I will grow distracted if I allow you to continue. Let me go about my business and keep watch while I do. It will not take long and then we might be off, to home.”

The word felt not like a lie on her lips, but strange regardless. Childermass appeared to wish to stall her but instead did as she asked and moved about like her shadow once more.

“Have you a knife, Mr. Childermass?” She asked as she neared the street again, halting momentarily in the cover of the alcove. He watched her curiously for a moment before withdrawing the requested item and setting it in her outstretched palm. She held it between her teeth, without a care for what might be on it, as she removed a dainty glove from one hand. She ran the blade against the pad of the finger that held the freckle he had spied some time ago. Although she made no noise at the movement, Childermass was unable to suppress the hiss at the sight of her blood welling in the wound.

She did not look to him as she offered him the knife by the hilt and then, without a word, moved back into street to the front door of her friend’s home.

He followed shortly, standing to the side of the entrance, and divided his time looking about them and watching her movements. He could hear her words but did not understand them, recognizing them as Irish but not knowing what they meant.

Finding a hidden spot, one that she thought someone might not spy at least for a time, she pressed her blood to it. The incantation she spoke repeated as she offered the blood of herself to protect the life of her friend. She took a step back, pausing only in her litany long enough to spit upon the threshold. Another round of words and she closed her eyes, letting out a long breath that did not seem to be a sigh but part of the spell itself.

When she had finished and removed herself fully from the door and stoop, Aine lifted her wounded finger to her lips and suckled it. Without a glance in Childermass’ direction, she reached blindly for his arm before moving in the direction of Hanover-square.


	13. A Path Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first, I have to fangirl a little. Enzo Cilenti (the actor that portrays Childermass so brilliantly) RESPONDED TO MY TWEET. I know it's ridiculous for me to be this excited, but I am.
> 
> Aside from this -- thank you to those of you that continue to read and comment, you make me want to write more! Thank you to Kassie339 for the new kudos, and to the new readers.
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter: night terrors.

Her vision felt watery; not as if she was crying, but as if she was under a layer of the stuff. She could breathe, although it was labored. Her movements felt comparably impaired, as if walking was a chore. Part of her recognized her existence as a dream but there was another reasonable spot in her mind that screamed against such flippancy, such attempts at logic.

The place was ghostly; it reminded her of an overcast day at Belvedere, but with the trees dead and the structures crumbling. Everything felt so very _gray_ – not just looked it, but the feeling of desolation almost.

Aine thought to turn back, although she could not rightly remember from which direction she had come. With no other true option, she pressed forward despite the difficulty of it. She found it odd that the detritus beneath her bare feet did not make a sound as she stepped upon it, nor did it wound the soft flesh of her soles.

She carried on for some time, on a path that wasn’t, until she came upon a bridge. Or what had been a bridge, she believed – now it was broken, pieces of stone falling off into the nothingness it spanned across. Most curious were the pieces of the bridge that appeared to be floating from her end to the opposite bank.

She had grown accustomed in her short time to her hindered movements and took tentative steps forward, to the ledge of the bridge from her side. Careful, she set a foot out upon the closest floating brick and pressed down, keeping another solidly where she had started standing.

It took her weight without complaint and, holding her heavy breath, she put her foot more fully upon it before bringing herself to stand there.

She held her breath until it appeared that she was not plummeting to her doom; with the air released in a sigh, she scanned the path before her and nimbly crossed the not-bridge to the other side.

Aine was shaking when she made it to the mossy other side, comforted by what felt like whole ground beneath her. Letting down the skirts of her nightdress, she pressed on.

It struck her as odd that she saw not another soul; no woodland creatures, no travelers. This made her believe more resolutely that she was in a dream, despite the tiredness she felt as she continued forward into the darkened woods.

What she next came upon caused her a fright; apparition, for they could be nothing else with the sight of them in finery but near transparent, had come to settle in the path in front of her.

“You must away,” they spoke in unison, their voices strange and like an echo in the otherwise silent forest. Although it sounded as if they were all speaking, the mouth of one man masked in something that resembled a lion was all that truly moved.

He struck a familiar chord in her but she could not place him. She did not speak, but the other image did. A woman with hair coiled atop her head, grayed either by Aine’s vision or time, spoke next with the sound of the other’s behind it. “He knows you are come and it will not do.”

“Leave before you are found,” the man spoke again, hand clasped tightly in that of the woman whose face was hidden behind what looked to be an owl’s mask.

“I know not where I am or how to leave,” Aine managed, though her voice sounded distorted to her own ears – although she was unsure if it was her speech or her hearing that caused the dissonance.

“Go,” they spoke together, hands not holding the others’ raised with their palms facing towards her. She felt something she imagined was kin to electricity in her heart as light pulsed from them and pain coursed through her as her vision blackened.

 Aine awoke with a scream in the bleak darkness of her bedroom at Hanover-square, body drenched in sweat even with her blankets unceremoniously kicked off prior to her startled rousing.

Only a few short breaths later and the door was flung open, a harried-looking Childermass’ face cast in candlelight as he pushed into the room. With her eyes adjusting, she noted that a sliver of the beginning of the sunrise was creaking through the closed curtains along his clothed knees.

He was at her side in an instant, his untucked white shirt half-buttoned and his hair disheveled. Holding the candle nearer to her face, one hand pressed into the bed on her opposite side, he spoke in a quiet voice, “My lady?”

“A nightmare,” she responded weakly, blue eyes widened as she found his hand among her sheets. It was highly improper, every bit of it, but she cared not a whit at the moment. She was drenched, her nightdress clinging to her in its sodden state. She might have thought to be embarrassed in another moment, but then she was only comforted by his presence.

“I would that you might not hide the truth from me, my lady.” His response, along with his face, was pained as his fingers on the sheet curled around hers. From the doorway, the touch would be hidden. As of yet, no one else had stumbled upon the distressed lady.

“In truth, I do not know what to say,” she sighed, her other hand worrying the necklace she wore. Having pulled herself up some in the bed as he crossed the room after entering, she leaned forward and rested her damp forehead against his shoulder. She was shaking beyond what she might hide and it took much of Childermass’ resolve to not wrap her entirely in his arms.

“Are you well enough to dress?” he asked quietly, words drifting over the back of her head. Her hair, while down as he had once requested, was darkened with her sweat. He seemed not to notice as he set the candle on her bedside table and ran his hand over the length of it, smoothing and soothing.

“Another moment, please,” she pleaded, her voice choked with emotion. The hand that had held her necklace was now fisted into his loose shirt, holding him as close as she dared, lest they be discovered. “Just another moment more, please, my lord.”

For all that he could do given their current positions, both literal and otherwise, Childermass held her tightly and closed his eyes against the feeling of helplessness that overcame him when faced with her need. He would take her worry from her and destroy the man that caused her so much grief, were he able.

They were not disturbed by another – which, in and of itself, caused Childermass some discontent as that meant that not another member of the household had heard or been bothered by his lady’s scream – but Childermass left her, standing at her closed door as she dressed despite his own state.

It was a while in coming, for she took to washing as much as she was able to rid herself of the film of fear that coated her, but eventually Aine opened the door to see Childermass’ tense shoulders in front of her. He spun about and almost looked surprised to see her there, which was a curious thing considering.

Her hair remained down and damp, although it smelled of roses and not fright. So relieved was he at the sight of her that he forgot himself and lifted a hand to brush strands of red behind her ear. “Come with me, my lady. Let us get you a mug of something warm and a fire to help you dry.”

She nodded a little, lifting a hand to cover his. She seemed not to mind what this could do to her reputation, or his livelihood, as she looked up into the face of the man that saved her time and time again. “Would that we could stay locked away here, the two of us.”

Childermass smiled slightly at that, thumb stroking along the bone of her cheek. “Aye, my lady. But the house will not wake for some time.”

“I would that you might hold me until we lose track of where either of us begins,” she spoke so quietly that Childermass almost did not hear her, despite their closeness.

He found it curious, the ache in his chest at her words and the look in her eyes. It was as if it hurt his heart but that was a ridiculous notion, despite the reality of the feeling. He pressed closer to brush his lips across her forehead before he pulled himself from her entirely, fearful that he would do just as she suggested and ruin everything if he stood another moment so connected to her.

She whimpered at the loss of his touch and he froze at the sound, mouth drawn down in a frown at the noise she had made. “Please, my lady,” his words were but a scratch, “it will do us no good to be caught out.”

Aine looked for a moment, to him, as if she were considering such a thing. She was warring with herself over her desire to take him by the hand and bar the door with them inside. Her cheeks were flushed for many reasons, not the least of which being her desire for the man in front of her. But he was right – when was he not? – and so she frowned a little herself before moving into the hall and closing over her door. Childermass let out a sigh of relief, not that he would admit to such a thing, and led the lady to the library.

She lit the fire as he procured the drink of which he had spoken, as well as some bread on cheese on which she might nibble and an apple for himself. He knew her well and knew that she was often quite ravenous in the morning. He was not sure if she would b hungry yet, but knew that being prepared would do little harm.

When he returned, she was curled in an unladylike fashion in the oversized chair that he had once frequented and had now completely given over to her. She had tugged another chair to her so that the armrests pressed against one another. He smiled softly at that, noting as he approached that she held a book of herbs in her hands.

John Childermass was a clever man; he raised an eyebrow at her as he set down the tray of things he brought with him near to their chairs before taking up the space meant for him. “What answer is it for which you search, my lady?”

She did not shift her gaze from the words in front of her, instead lifting one finger on one hand to tap lightly at the pendant she did not keep hidden. He saw in her profile the curve of her lip upward in a smile and tilted her book a little so that he might see her page.

It was a large, dusty tome for which Norrell had little desire or patience. In truth, half of the books he owned, he owned so that another might not. The book was full of print words and hand-drawn figures, elegant in their simplicity but also complex enough to give all that was necessary.

“Eve’s root,” Aine murmured in a matter-of-fact tone, her fingernail tapping against the glass of the vial. “A curious thing, my Mr. Childermass.”

“Is it truly?” He, for his part, seemed not disturbed by her revelation. Curious, though, that she knew about it at all. He was more preoccupied with toying with her, as was his way.

“Tell me something, have you the Adam’s half?”

“Aye,” he replied simply, patting at the pocket of his rumpled pants. He ought to dress himself for others but found that he did not wish to leave her again.

“And this a gift after a scant few months of acquaintance?”

Childermass snorted a little at her question, her brilliant smile betraying any sense of offense she might have tried to feign. In truth, it had been nearly a year in her acquaintance. But a correction was unwarranted - they both knew the truth of it. “What is it that your book says the root means, then, my lady?”

“It speaks of love, fidelity, and happiness. Tell me, my lord, did you intend to have me fall in love with you?”

The casual way in which the words left her mouth surprised the both of them and Aine froze, as if afraid she had crossed an invisible line.

Childermass, in all his wisdom, chose instead to reach a hand to settle it on her forearm. When he spoke, he watched her face even as she had settled on not looking directly at him. “…it is also for protection of a loved one, my lady.”

She opened her mouth to speak before she looked up at him and her face changed, softened as the worry left her. “Do you mean to tell me,” she spoke in something akin to a whisper, breathy and unsure but hopeful, “…that you loved me then, my lord?”

“In my way,” he responded in a voice low enough she had to almost strain to hear. “Aye, my lady.”

Aine seemed to hold her breath even as she spoke again, “ _And now_ , my lord?”

The grin he gave her was wholly unfamiliar to those outside of that room and his hand slid up the length of her arm, over her shoulder, drifting along her neck, and slipped into her hair to pull her gently closer as he leaned for his lips to slant over hers. “Aye, my lady.”

The kiss did not feel long enough by half, but it was charged as any other they shared. Childermass did not withdraw his fingers from her hair or his person from halfway over her chair when their lips parted. Instead, he shifted his head so that his temple pressed to hers and lifted his other hand to her cheek again.

“I have not, in all my years, felt as I do with you,” he shook his head lightly, the strands of their hair mingling between them. “I have tried to convince myself out of it. It will do no one any good, you must know…”

“No harm will come to you,” she sighed, long-since having tucked the book in the chair between her leg and the armrest. She stretched her arms so that she might touch him as much as possible in the small amount of time they were allotted alone. “You do _me_ good, John Childermass. I would’ve burned Hanover-square to the ground with Mr. Lascelles in it some time ago, were you not here to calm me.”

Childermass thought it might be best that they separated but found that he lacked the strength to initiate the movement as she turned her head to press her lips along his stubble-covered jaw. When her hand slid under his mostly unbuttoned collar and her fingers danced across the hot skin, her eyes watched his face even so close as hers was to his. The sharp inhale he drew at the feel of her skin made him seem like a young colt that had never so much as seen the ankles of a young lady. He let out a soft growl and closed his hand over hers, their fingers separated by the fabric on his torso. He pressed down and hissed at the full contact of her hand, nuzzling his forehead against the hair at her temple. His breathing was ragged, ruffling the hair about her ear.

“ _My_ _lady_ ,” his voice was low, a thunderous hum as his heart beat furiously against her palm. He could feel his hands shaking, although only slightly, and felt as if the tremors carried throughout the rest of him.

“Yes,” she replied, pressing the pads of her fingers into his chest. Her other hand was on the back of his neck, holding him as she turned her head to slant her lips against his. “Yes, John Childermass. I am your lady. You are my heart,” her fingers curved more over where his heart beat in his chest.

He thought many a thing in those moments, many romantic things and dirty things and _intriguing_ things as he allowed himself to be lost in the newness of her, or the rightness.

When their hearts and minds settled they, eventually, begrudgingly pulled themselves apart enough to be at least a little more appropriate. In truth, there was nothing proper about their positions or their thoughts. They both looked harried; their hair was mussed, lips swollen, and Aine’s eyes were dewy. Childermass’ shirt was rumpled from sleeping in it and her fingers and, while he appeared to have calmed he could still feel the heat of her hand over his heart. But, despite or perhaps in spite of such a thing, it was a long while before either of them made a move to right the situation.

“I feel…I should tell you a thing or two,” Aine started when Childermass returned after dressing for the day; he had been right and doing caught out as they had been would be no boon to them. Aine made no bones about her hair; Betsy would certainly see to it before they had any sort of company or the day truly began. The people of the house would rouse soon to see to their work so they had moved their chairs apart enough to be somewhat appropriate.

“Please do, my lady. Would that I could help you, in any manner.”

“I am unsure if there is much help to be had. I haven’t even a clue where I should start.” She had taken to worrying her necklace again, thumb stroking the chain. “The man I spoke to you of, the man that concerns me so. I… have tried to put him from my mind, but to no avail. Arabella had mentioned him some time ago as well, having met him in quite a similar manner as to myself at the residence of the Poles. She has not mentioned him since, but I do not know if it was because of my reaction or because she has not met him again. I had not seen him until last night either, but I fear… I fear he is not what he seems.”

Childermass was at a loss for what to say and so added only, “You had mentioned that last night, my lady. Have you a clue what he is, then, if not what he seems?”

“I believe him to be a magician, or something of the like. He is…odd. I wish I had the words to tell you, or that he would call when I was not alone. But then, I do not wish to ever see him again.” She let out a heavy sigh, reaching for her tea but bringing her hand back before she caught it up. “More than that, though, my dream of last night…” She shifted her eyes to her companion, frowning. “It was most unlike any other. I remember one similar, the place familiar, from a time around when my mother passed and again when my father joined her. It was different then, and my memory fails me. I had never seen another there, but this night… I saw two others, after much searching.”

He did not like to see her so worried but had not a thing to say to comfort her. He cursed their positions, but in the household and in their chairs, for his inability to reach out to her. “What of them, my lady?”

“They seemed familiar, although I have no true knowledge as to why. At first, they did not but upon further consideration, something of them struck me. Not their faces, as they were hidden behind such bizarre masquerade masks as to be indiscernible. It was as if they were ghosts, or very old. All washed of color. They warned me of a ‘he’ that was coming to find me, there in the dream. They are, in truth, how I returned to waking.”

“How so?”

“They told me to be gone and a light came forth from them. It is then that I awoke, and you found me shortly after. I wish I knew what it all meant.”

“Perhaps it was your mind warning you against the man you met,” Childermass offered, although his mind worked towards other ends. He would not frighten her without more information, however.

“Perhaps, my lord,” she breathed, her eyes cast at the fire she had created some hours previous. She did not believe either her words or his, but felt herself unable to speak what she did think was the truth. He was of a similar mind and so they sat, in tense but companionable silence, until the day truly began.


	14. Pulse in My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was supposed to be more...stuff in this, but they kind of took over. Hopefully will get to another one tonight!

Some days later, Aine had been taken with Norrell to the Strange’s home - after a strenuous visit to Lady Pole, a few days prior, which took place perhaps a week after the redhead’s night terror. Jonathan had returned and felt an odd sort of magical presence about; he had written to Mr. Norrell upon arriving, after greeting his wife, to ask for his guidance. Aine was brought along as a way to distract Arabella. She was set in the carriage while he spoke to Emma and Sir Walter – most likely because the man knew quite well how she would react to what it is he intended to say.

It was fortunate for her that Mr. Norrell had not experienced enough of her magic to understand that she was the one that had cast the ward that Jonathan Strange felt upon arriving. It had not disallowed him entrance but the presence of it concerned him and so, he and Mr. Norrell set about to search for the culprit of the spell.

They were unable to find the well-hidden swipe of blood she had left as part of her ritual and so they cast a counter-spell to remove the ward. Aine felt a pain in her heart, entirely imagined, when her magic dissipated.

“Are you quite well?” Arabella asked as she lowered her tea, looking at her friend across the table.

Aine managed a small smile and nodded, finding her own tea as she answered. “Yes, my friend. ‘Twas just a chill. But you – do tell me of your days since we last saw each other. Have you seen Emma? We have just come from her home, but I was…unable to attend to her.” She cast a glance to the doorway through which Mr. Norrell might enter, if he had a mind to.

Arabella frowned quite deeply and set her hands upon the table, inspecting them for a long moment of quiet. “A strange happening, not the day after we last saw each other. A man…do you remember I told you of a man, Aine, with such strange hair that spoke to me at our friend’s residence?” Aine swallowed and was glad that Arabella had chosen not to look at her. She croaked her assent and her friend continued. “I saw him again, there. Emma was distraught. You see…she had been making a sort of tapestry. You do remember it, of course. Such a strange thing…It appears someone destroyed it in the night, though she knew not who or how. It had her in a right fit. But the man…he sat with me and asked me what troubles I had.”

It was all Aine could do not to throw herself, prostrate, at the feet of her friend and beg her forgiveness. She knew not why, exactly, but she felt as though this was entirely her fault.

“There is more,” Arabella frowned, turning her gaze to her discomforted friend. The redhead reached out and touched the other’s hand gently, as if to coax the story from her although it was for her own benefit entirely. “He told me…he told me she had a rose at her mouth, which was causing her madness. He said he could…that he could remove it, had he a mind. Were I to make him a bargain.”

“Oh my dear Arabella…”

“I did not,” the brunette sighed and when she looked at the other woman again, her eyes were glittering with tears. “I could hit the man, for trying to make a bargain of our friend. But do you…do you think it wrong of me, not to agree to it?”

“No!” Aine responded emphatically, causing Arabella some distress at her intensity. “I…apologize, my friend, for my reaction. I do not…it is not your fault, what has befallen our friend. It is not your fault and you should not blame yourself for not taking such a bargain. To be certain, any man that _could_ do what he supposes would do it.”

“That is what I told him,” Arabella sighed, seemingly comforted by her friend’s agreement. “You do not think he speaks true, then?”

“No, Bell. I do not. Mr. Norrell is, and your Jonathan will become as such, the best magician in all of England. If he cannot find a cure for her madness, there is no cure to be had.” Aine felt sick at saying the words; she did not believe Mr. Norrell incapable, merely unwilling. But she knew more than that that Arabella needed to hear such words for comfort. The gentleman with the thistledown hair, for that was whom her friend referred to, _could_ likely remove the rose of madness. But the price, Aine believed, was far too high for Arabella to ever pay.

“There is another oddity,” Mrs. Strange added after taking a calming sip of tea. “I went to visit again, some few days ago. Prior to Jonathan’s return. I was turned away by Stephen. He said she is not to receive visitors.”

Aine frowned deeply and took her friend’s hand in an attempt at solidarity and comfort.

“But that is not…” Arabella shook her head a little. “He said such _strange_ things. I cannot remember them, something about a little man and a pot. It was so…odd. He seemed _distressed_ at his words.”

The Irishwoman would not make the connection for her friend, but what she spoke reminded her of Emma’s occasional fits. _A rose of madness_ , she repeated in her mind.

Before much more could be said, one of the maid’s came to collect Aine on Mr. Norrell’s behalf. They would return to Hanover-square.

She was mid-step out of the carriage when the shot sounded and moved faster than she thought she ever had, having heard Childermass’ voice calling ‘Madame!’ before the shot was fired. She could hear his initial shout of pain and pushed Norrell and every other man from her way.

She felt as though she could see nothing but the man lying on the cement, blood pooling beneath and around him. It was too long, she thought, before men came to carry him inside. Her hands were bloodied as she knelt at his side, the knees of her dress soaking in the redness of his spilt life.

“John,” she murmured as she bent over him, face hovering near his. “John, please.”  She did not have the words and, as the men were still gathering, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. Her words were a whisper against his skin before she pulled back to allow the men to lift him.

“Would you mind his head!” Aine screeched, a sound unlike anything she could remember making as she scurried behind them. She cared not for the raging woman, aside from the fact that she would certainly be having words. And harsh ones.

She realized after a moment that she was possibly causing more harm than good and so she fell behind for a time. Long enough to glean who the shooter was.

“Emma?” she breathed, aghast. She had heard the woman shouting Norrell’s name. She lifted a hand, still laced with the blood of a Northern Englishman, to her lips and did not notice the sticky wetness that came with it.

Mr. Norrell was raging, in his way, as Emma was carried up the stairs. He spoke of hanging her, of his _dishonor_. She wished, very deeply, to remind him that John Childermass lay bleeding on a table for him. He deigned, after some time, to mention that _his servant had been shot_. At this, it took every ounce of calm in her to keep from cursing him into oblivion.

A few moments passed before Aine forced her way into the room that they had stolen Childermass away to. She broke in, despite the look of the men around the table, and pressed herself into the room to stand at Childermass’ head. She pressed her fingers delicately into his hair, against his skin and scalp.

“John, I am here,” she spoke with her body folded nearly double over his, her words whispered in the language of Ireland. “I am here, my heart, and you must stay.”

It was fortunate for them both that none in their company understood Gaelic, although Childermass could only vaguely hear the sound of her voice and did not rightly know the words she said even for the brief time he remained conscious.

She could hear Norrell continued raving and it took all of her focus to keep on the man at her fingertips rather than storm off and light the library on fire in entirety.

She would kill him – Norrell, that is – if Childermass did not make it through this. She would burn Hanover-square to the ground, the repercussions be damned if she lived through it.

When the bullet had been removed and Childermass brought to his attic room, chest bandaged and still unconscious, Aine set herself in a chair at his side.

She did not move for the rest of the day, until Betsy found her.

“Aine, my lady, you must eat something. It will do no one any good for him to wake and find you wasted away.”

The redhead did not seem to notice the woman for a time, her eyes cast upon the face of the man laid up in his bed. She nodded once, eventually, and slid her hand from his. His fingers twitched and she felt it as though her heart was in his palm.

“Stay with him, then, Betsy,” Aine nodded a little, gesturing to the chair. “I would not have him wake alone with me gone. I will return post-haste, after I have relieved myself and eaten.”

Aine snuck about the house to take care of her needs, careful to avoid Norrell if he had a mind to find her. She wished never to see him again, the man that stood idly by as her love took a bullet for him. And Mr. Lascelles, who had hidden behind even the magician. She would take much delight in eventually setting his trousers, or better yet his hair, on fire.

She returned to find Betsy, a hand on Childermass’ wrist, in the chair. She was reciting a story as Aine closed the door and continued, after glancing at her mistress for a nod.

The story of Conall Cra Bhuidhe or The Black Thief and Knight of Glen; it was a story Aine had heard in her childhood, familiar to her through the telling. A Scottish tale, one of the many that Betsy had brought with her into the home of young Aine.

The redhead settled onto the bed near Childermass’ knees, careful not to disturb his shoulder, as Betsy finished up her tale. She patted the man gently on the arm and stood, gesturing for Aine to take up her newly vacated chair.

“You should speak to him, my lady. I imagine it will be of great comfort whether or not he can respond.”

Numbly, the young woman nodded and took up her position beside Childermass. She slid her hand into his and cleared her throat, telling him of an insufferable black knight that saved an impatient princess from herself. Betsy smiled to herself as she left the woman alone with her knight, shining armor not required.

Aine passed several days in the same manner, taking only the scantest of breaks in both her presence and her speech. Her voice grew tired as well as her body, aching from sitting so much.

On the fourth day, Mr. Norrell burst through the door and Aine had a mind to shove him back through.

“So this is where you have been hiding,” he grumbled, hands behind his back as he strode about the room. Aine had taken to changing Childermass’ bandage as necessary; the doctor had been up twice to ensure that healing was happening as it should. Mr. Norrell had not visited once, until that moment.

“Not hiding, Mr. Norrell,” Aine corrected, sounding as though she had no patience for him and not caring a whit. “One must attend to him.” She gestured to the book she had set on Childermass’ bedside. “I have continued my studies, if that is what worries you.” It was not entirely true, although not false either. She had picked the book up one or two times in an effort to occupy her mind but let her throat rest.

“I have need of you. And of him,” Mr. Norrell frowned deeply, nodding his head once in the direction of the prone man.

“Certainly, your needs can wait until he has recovered,” Aine spoke evenly, trying to keep the majority of her displeasure internalized. Childermass was not there to clean up her mess, so she had best not so readily make one.

“They cannot!” Norrell hissed, pacing about. “The woman has tried to murder me!”

“Yes, and in doing so, _shot him_ ,” Aine replied with as much venom as the other had, still not releasing Childermass’ hand. “Mr. Norrell, what is it that you _did_ to deserve such ire from the lady?”

“Me?” he exclaimed, incredulously as he turned on her. “She is mad! That is all!”

“Even madmen have their own logic,” Aine retorted, staring him down.

“I will not abide such talk in my own home,” Norrell grumbled, shaking his head. The fact that he backed down so readily made Aine believe she was right, although she could not draw all the dots together yet.

“Please, Mr. Norrell, give me leave to attend to him until he wakes, restored. He will aid you and I will do whatever it is you require of me.” She was not pleased with him, but she pleaded with him for the small boon. “A few more days’ time, the doctor has said. Just a few more days, and we will be at your side to do as you need. I swear to it.”

Norrell stood for a time, hands clasped behind his back, as he looked from the man in the bed to the woman beside it. He nodded once and stated, “Two,” before he turned on his head and left them alone again.

“Mo shíorghrá,” she breathed, lowering her head to rest on an unwounded part of his chest. Her forehead lay against the sheet she had brought up to cover most of him and she let out a long, shaky breath. “Mo chuisle mo chroí, _please_.” She called him her love and told him how much he meant to her in the language she knew so well. The pulse in her heart, she called him.

“You know,” he coughed and she sat up straight, half-jumping off of him as her hand grasped his. He smiled a little wanly, his light face ever-more pale in his state. “…I don’t understand a word of Irish.”

“ _John_ ,” she breathed, her face alight with happiness. She leaned over him and pressed kisses to his forehead until her tears dotted the skin and she pulled back, wiping first at his forehead and then at her cheeks. “I…Oh…” she sighed a little, shaking her head and leaning over to kiss his lips just so.

“How long have I slept?” he asked quietly, eyes half-open as they looked at her face.

“Days,” she frowned a little, lifting a hand to smooth hair away from his face. “Four or so, after they removed the bullet.” Her lips remained downturned as she lifted the hand not holding his, crossing over to touch the bandage not directly over his wound. “You must never give me such a fright again, John Childermass. _Promise me_.”

She had turned her face to his, looking deadly serious and also terribly afraid. His eyes fully open, he could see the lack of sleep that marred her features. He noted, somewhere and with amusement, that she was still the most beautiful woman he thought he had ever seen. He had long-since given up any hope of determining where his new-found romanticism came from. He lifted his own hand, the one not connected to the shoulder in which the bullet had taken up temporary residence, very slowly and managed to lay it on her cheek. “I will, my lady. On one condition.”

“With you, I will make such a bargain,” she smiled, the hand that had touched his bandage coming to hold his against her cheek. She stroked her thumb along the back of his hand, turning her face briefly to kiss his palm.

“Tell me what it is you were saying, a moment ago.”

“The Irish?” she asked, as if she did not know.

He nodded and winced, although he smiled after. “Aye, my lady.”

She blushed then, faced with the necessity to express feelings they both knew she had. She looked down to their joined hands and then back to his face. “An expression of my feelings, sir. The English translation for the first is ‘my love’ and the second…it does not translate well.”

“I do not think, my lady,” he paused to cough and Aine disconnected from him, although unwillingly, to bring him a cup. She set it down long enough to help him to sit up more. He took a sip and continued. “I do not think you wish the promise from me.”

“You said you did not know the words, John Childermass.”

“I do not, but I do know you. Speak truly, my lady.”

Aine watched him for a long moment before she nodded once, as if agreeing to something in her own mind. When she spoke next, she looked back to the hands she had joined again. “My eternal love, John Childermass, was the first I spoke. Or the English equivalent, at least.”

Although she was not looking to his face, the edge of his lips were turned up in a sort of smirk. He waited for her to continue and when she did not, he prompted, “Aye…and the second, my lady?”

She turned her gaze to him and he saw the worry in her eyes, although more than that was something else entirely. Her cheeks were colored and her eyes wide. “The pulse in my heart, John.” Her voice was soft but sure, her eyes on his despite her desire to look away. She was not sure why she wished to hide from him; he had told her he loved her, or nearly, more than a week before. But this was different and terrifying.

After a long moment, he spoke. “Say it again,” and it sounded less like a plea and more like a demand – as could be expected from him.

“Mo chuisle mo chroí,” she repeated, eyes locked as their fingers were.

“ _Again_ ,” he breathed, using the hand not held by her to lean himself closer to her. She had taken his water after he had his fill, set atop his bedside table once more.

“Mo shíorghrá,” she sighed a little, closing her eyes as she met him halfway and let his forehead rest against hers. “Mo chuisle mo chroí,” she murmured against his lips before he tilted his head to capture hers.


	15. Uneven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thank you so much for your comments, kudos, and continued (or new!) reading. I greatly appreciate all of your kind words and the time you take out of your days to read and in some cases comment. You're the reason I posted today and continue to have the drive to write things.
> 
> So, I am a dork and sometimes want to write while I'm driving. So I downloaded an app to record while I drive, so I can do just that. I've uploaded the tracks to soundcloud and am sharing them with you because I'm a ridiculous human being. Please note, there is swearing. Because I'm a potty-mouth. You can listen here, if you have any desire to do so -- it really is basically just me talking to myself, haha. https://soundcloud.com/nicole-marie-505082011/sets/bormtt 
> 
> Also...this chapter reads very much like filler, and I'm sorry for it -- it also came out a little weird, but I've been working on some off-site Harry Potter stuff and my head has to get back into the swing of things. 
> 
> So...enjoy!!!

For the first time in as long as Childermass had been in Mr. Norrell’s employ, he did not immediately relinquish himself to the other’s needs when he had Aine stilled enough for her to tell him that the magician wished for their aid.

Childermass spoke after more water and some bread that Aine had brought up in anticipation of his waking. “He can wait, just a little while longer.” With some doing, he shifted in the bed and looked to the spot at his side. Aine took the motion to mean as he suggested and moved about the bed, settling herself on his right side. His hand raised a moment, he stroked a finger down the length of her arm. She thought she imagined it, but she knew that she shivered and thought he might have as well. “Might you,” Childermass began, eyes on her. Her cheeks flushed brightly and she slid down so that she could settle at his side.

They both breathed a sigh then, as if they had been holding the air in their lungs for longer than a brief moment. It mattered not a fig that neither of them had had a proper bath in as many days as he had been laid up. It mattered not that the implications of their positions would cause a stir, were anyone to come into the unlocked room.

All that mattered was that Aine’s head came to rest upon his bare shoulder, her body curved along his as they held each other in the relative silence of Childermass’ attic room.

When the time came for Norrell to be told of Childermass’ revival, Aine was sent away so that the men might talk. She was perturbed, but even such an act could not diminish the happiness she felt at the man in black’s awakening. She had spent so many days in fear that he might never return to her that she all but floated herself into the library.

As she settled herself into a chair, she began to think on things. Things she had spent a long time attempting to forget. She wondered if her father worried over her mother as she had worried over Childermass, only to have the opposite outcome be the ending.

She sat in silence, hands in her lap as she stared into the space of the fireplace. Flames danced there, small and warm, but she did not see them.

She remembered her mother, as much as she was able; pale skin and dark hair, bright eyes as Aine’s. She was no perfect replica of either of her parents; in fact, she looked little like either. She had her mother’s eyes, she knew, and the high cheeks of her father. Her freckle-less skin from her mother as well, and more height than the woman but not nearly as much as the man’s. Both had dark hair, however, or had once. By the time her father passed, only a few years following her mother into the grave, his hair had gone almost entirely white. It reminded her, she thought, of the man with the thistledown hair. Immediately, she frowned at the idea; her father was nothing like him, the strange creature that haunted her.

 _Rose of madness_ , her mind repeated when it shifted to the not-man that seemed to follow both she and Arabella when it suited him. Roses. Lifting the pendant from her necklace, she clasped it gently in her hand and closed her eyes.

It was a funny thing, that Childermass had chosen a rose for her gift. She knew the implications of it in society, for romance. She knew the stories told of the flower as well. She had, though, for all of her life been compared to such a plant – long and graceful, topped with hair like petals of a rose but full of such an anger that could prick you like thorns. Her father was the first to tell her such, after a particularly awful tantrum as a child. He meant it to make her laugh, she thought, but she was not laughing at present.

“Rose of madness,” she let out in a sigh, heavy with her accent as she opened her eyes again. She let out a distraught sort of choked laughter and dropped her hand away from her necklace, letting her head rest back against the cushion on the chair. “Perhaps that is what my father meant. Perhaps I am mad,” she shook her head, smiling wanly to herself. “Is it all a dream?” she murmured, hand lifting into her line of sight. She turned it about, as if entranced by the lines on her fingers and palm.

The laugh she let out then sounded as though she might be mad and she shook her head. “I would that it might be a dream,” she stood and moved about the room, fingers tracing the spines of books as she set about to find something with which to occupy her time.

She took a turn about the room and found herself at the north-westerly bookcase. She thought she had heard Mr. Norrell speak something of Chaston; she did her best to remember all of those that Mr. Norrell deemed ridiculous, for she firmly believed that he did so to discredit them. He was a man of great intellect and yet such a small mind. And perhaps…perhaps Ormskirk? Yes, she believed, that was the name.

She gathered the two books and settled herself back in her chair, wishing for all the world that Mr. Norrell might remained otherwise occupied until she had a chance to finish the both of them.

* * *

Aine was kept in the dark largely regarding the goings-on around Emma Pole, once Childermass had recovered enough to do as Mr. Norrell required. Mr. Norrell was, Aine was pleased to note, rather occupied with Mr. Lascelles and Jonathan Strange. And, she heard tell, the King.

This left her much time to study, amongst brief visits with Arabella who wished to spend much time with her husband, and quite some time to spend with Childermass when he was not doing as Norrell begged of him.

Their time was, perhaps, more stilted than it had been before; it seemed that they together endeavored to remain as separate as they could to avoid any scrutiny. They did not wish to rest on their laurels and be caught out, although even the short distance between their chairs caused an ache in Aine’s chest.

“What it is it that occupies you so, my lady?” Childermass asked one afternoon, the two of them alone in the library for Mr. Norrell’s excursion to a place that Aine had not asked after. It was some time after Childermass’ initial recovery, the weather growing colder by the day.

“My studies,” she responded easily enough, offering him the Chaston, as she had taken to the Ormskirk for a time.

“I do not think Mr. Norrell has suggested such reading,” Childermass responded with a small smile that lacked amusement as he lifted the tome to inspect it.

“Aye, no, he most certainly has not,” Aine laughed a little as she placed a finger on the page where she was to leave off. “And by being so vocally opposed to it, I should think, it means that it is what I am meant to read.”

Childermass snorted before handing the book back over. “You must be careful, my lady. Mr. Norrell does not take kindly to such acts.”

“No, Mr. Childermass, he does not,” she sighed slightly, lifting the book again. “Although he does not take kindly to much outside of what he deems perfectly _respectable_ , does he?” She let the question site between them for a moment more before she set the book away and turned to face the man again. “Mr. Childermass, please speak the truth to me. What has happened to Lady Pole?”

The man stiffened at the question; he was just as loathe to lie as he was to answer it much at all. It took some moments, during which Aine did not repeat herself for she knew the man well enough to know that he meant to tell her what she wished to know, but eventually Childermass remarked on the subject. “She has been taken to a…she is under the care of John Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot, at Starcross. It is dressed up as a madhouse, to keep her husband calm. She is the only…” Childermass smiled queasily, “ _patient_ there.”

“Why not Bedlam?” Aine queried, although she thought she knew the reason before the question left her. Apparently Childermass believed she ought to know the answer as well, for the look he gave her suggested that he would not acknowledge the question for the foolishness of it. “Fine then. Mr. Childermass…do you think, now that she is removed, I might speak with her?”

He grunted briefly in response, “It is a long trip, my lady. I daresay Norrell would notice your absence. It would be a hard day’s ride as one, a carriage would take two and a half easily.”

“I _do_ know how to ride a horse, John Childermass,” Aine rolled her eyes at him, gathering her books up to replace them so that Norrell would not notice them missing. “And I can think of something suitable, should the need arise, to tell Mr. Norrell if he deigns to notice my absence. What with the book being published, I hardly think he will have a moment to care.”

“I do not think this is wise, my lady,” Childermass frowned, having lit his pipe some time ago and letting the smoke puff out in the coolness of the room around them. “What of the impropriety of you travelling with a man?”

“What of it, Childermass?” Aine shook her head as she moved back towards him, perching herself on the arm of his chair as if she were his wife. “Little of what I have chosen to do with my life for some time has been what one might call ‘wise’. I know you intend to visit her, regardless. And if you do not allow me to come with you, I will follow. This you know as well.”

He thought to groan at her insistence but instead he let out brief snort, followed by a snort. “Aye, my lady. Although how do you know what my intentions are?”

“You would not so readily have the information for the distance if you did not plan to travel it, sir,” Aine grinned at him as if she had caught him out and he could not suppress the laugh at her pride. “But, in truth, I do not understand _why_ you wish to seek her.”

“There is much I do not know,” Childermass responded, his tone brokering no space for further questions, “And I dislike the feeling.”

Aine understood all too well what he meant by both parts and let the subject rest as she set about to make the plans, should Mr. Norrell inquire. She chose, instead, to approach the subject with him directly.

“Mr. Norrell, I have an urgent need to away to Wales,” she burst into his library, holding aloft a letter in a tight grip. In truth, it was nonsense written on scrap paper that she hoped he would not wish to see. Norrell looked up, rather begrudgingly, from his book. He was wearing a magenta cap rather than a wig, which put her off a moment as she adjusted to the sight. “A man with dealings with my family has requested my presence rather immediately, in Aberystwyth.” This place was another day’s ride farther than Starcross would be, giving ample time for travel and discussion. She had planned, quite specifically, with the thought in mind.

“Why cannot he not come to London, then?” Norrell asked with a frown, not even looking at the ‘letter’ in her hand.

Aine’s faced flushed with fake anger – in truth, it was from the lie that she was telling and her worry over it. But the face she made at the question suggested she was irritated with the sender of the letter that had not come. “He has traveled for days by horse and boat to Aberystwyth, it is no large problem for me to meet him there. Unless you have need of me, sir.”

She knew that he did not – and, if he did, he would not tell her. Needing her was not something that Mr. Gilbert Norrell would _ever_ own up to, in her estimation. Childermass, however, was the other problem.

“Very well, Lady. You have my leave to travel, if it is entirely necessary. Although I do not think it to be so. He should respect you enough to travel here, if he needs you so desperately.”

“I do appreciate your acceptance of my request,” Aine glossed over his mention of the lack of respect, doing her best not to laugh at such a motion coming from _that_ man in particular. “There is one more thing, though,” she seemed to have calmed some from her initial entrance – Childermass, all the while, was seated in the corner of the room. He did not let his face display any knowledge of the circumstances and, in truth, she had not _told_ him what she would do to get Norrell to agree to let her go. He thought, for a moment, that she might be speaking in earnest.

Norrell seemed to be put out by her continued need for his attention and so waved his hand, “Whatever it is you need, I am sure you have it at your disposal. I do not have time for this, Lady. Please. Take your leave of me and this place and bring with you what it is you require.”

“Childermass, sir?” Aine asked, curious and mildly concerned as to how easy it was for her to do what she desired.

“Yes, yes, be gone with the both of you,” Norrell responded and Aine thought, for a time, that he must have misunderstood what she was saying – he seemed to have stopped paying full attention to her nearly the moment she walked in, if he had been at all. Not one to question good fortune, however, Aine called to the man in black and led him from the library, lest Norrell change his mind.

They were to leave immediately – Aine had already packed before, which gave them some time to talk as a guise to operate that she had not already been planning to flee. If they did not leave post-haste, it would not appear to be as urgent as she had initially suggested and so could make Norrell question the whole thing – if, of course, he had a mind to.

“Did you cast upon him?” Childermass asked as Aine emerged from her rooms, dressed down by spades into something more reminiscent of what she might wear were she of Childermass’ station. There was no need to dress in finery for travelling and Norrell would not think to go through her bag to determine what she meant to meet her mysterious Irish acquaintance in. She packed little and light, only enough dresses as might be necessary and few other necessities.

“No,” Aine responded emphatically, surprised to have the question put forth. “You told me not to, some time ago. I have not and would not, unless times were quite desperate. Had he a mind to question me, I would’ve simply left without his consent. I am his ward only to protect our names. At my current age, it means quite little.” She was very nearly twenty-one, well into her majority. Her continued residence and lack of husband caused some talk; her lack of acknowledgement as an apprentice caused her more concern, although she found little time to dwell on it as of late. “It is all for show, now, more than it ever has been before. And do not think to ask why I stay, because you know the reason.”

Although her words may have seemed harsh, the smile that she secreted to him as they descended the stairs and made for the stables was returned by him. They did indeed both know why she remained at Hanover-square and would, quite likely for a long time to come.

They were away towards Starcross quickly and, with half the day gone, intended to make use of a fast pace long enough to keep up the ruse of being rushed. They took their time once they left London, however, knowing that they could not push the horses through the darkness and that a stop would be required.

They chatted on the way – of all manner of things, though they pointedly steered away from the topics that likely needed the most discussion. When they did arrive upon an inn some in an area northwest of Salisbury, perhaps nearly halfway between London and Starcross, Childermass took the horses to the rickety stable despite Aine’s insistence that she help.

“First dinner, and then a room,” Childermass said quietly as he led Aine to a dark corner of the pub. He seemed unchanged from his normal disposition,a lthough perhaps a little more wary of his surroundings. Aine, for her part, was amused at the circumstances and also when Childermass pulled the chair from the table for her before she had  chance to seat herself.

“You know, you don’t have to treat me like-”

Childermass interrupted her with a look that said that she was better off not finishing her sentiment. This brought a sort of half smile to Aine’s face and she shook her head, just a little, considering all that had transpired between them.

A barmaid approached with ample bosoms spilling from her corseted dress front in a dress that had gone out of style some years prior and a ruddy face with a brilliant smile. Despite the fact that she looked at Childermass as though he would be delicious in more ways than one, Aine couldn’t help but be endeared to the woman for the bright look she gave her.

“So what’ll it be?” she asked, pushing a clump of dark blonde hair from her face as she glanced from the woman to the man and back again.

Childermass responded in a gruff tone, asking after two meads and whatever they had been planning to search that evening for dinner.

“And a room,” Aine insisted after a moment, before the barmaid had a chance to depart from their company.

“Eager, in’she?” the barmaid laughed a little, grinning as she winked at Childermass – who, despite everything that had occurred up to that moment, offered a smirk in response.

“Aye,” he offered with a sort of half-chuckle in his voice, glancing to his side to the young woman whose cheeks had gone nearly as red as her hair.

“Cannot blame her,” the barmaid laughed a little bit, shaking her head as she walked back to retrieve the things they had asked after.

When she returned amidst a quiet conversation between Aine and Childermass, she put down the two mugs of requested drink and the key. She asked idly for her payment; after it had been received, she turned about to retrieve the food for them.

Aine, despite her propensity to use her left hand for such things as eating and as she had removed her gloves, kept her left hand hidden in her lap while she used her right to lift the mead to her lips. The barmaid gave her a curious glance but left without another word.

The stew that they had been given was cold but decent enough, considering where it came from.

After a moment, Childermass let out a snort of laughter after glancing to his side and to see Aine using the spoon daintily with her smallest finger lifted. “Every bit the lady, no matter the surroundings,” he smirked.

Aine, surprised at his words, looked to his face before following his gaze to her offending hand. With an embarrassed sort of giggle, she lowered her pinky and gripped the spoon much like Childermass held his – looking quite a bit more at home in the seedy pub.

“You do realize,” Aine began after some time of quiet eating, “that no one here knows us and is unlikely to recognize us.”

Childermass stilled briefly at her side before he let out a quiet, “Aye,” as if questioning but also not wanting to know the answer to whatever it was he might ask.

Aine watched him curiously, as if expecting him to continue. When he didn’t, she let out a quiet sigh. “I don’t suppose many proper ladies and gentlemen frequent this establishment,” she continued in a soft voice, as if afraid to offend anyone that might hear. She doubted, in truth, that anyone would considering the din around them and the fact that the barmaid had taken up flirting with a distant table of rowdy not-quite-gentlemen.

“Aye,” Childermass replied, still not quite willing to star the conversation that Aine seemed so determined to begin.

Aine let out a heavy exhale, as if frustrated with his inability or unwillingness to offer more than a one-syllable response. “Is there a particular reason why you seem so incredibly opposed to discussing with me our current state of affairs?”

Childermass wore a bemused expression as he set his spoon down in his nearly-empty bowl. He lifted the mug to his lips and took a long pull from it before it set it down again. He seemed to be thinking, or at least that was what Aine surmised, as he pressed the palms of his hands into the uneven wood of the table in the relative darkness of their corner.

He was looking more into the dregs of his soup than he was to the woman at his side. So much so, that Aine was concerned that she had done something wrong by setting into motion their joined venture.

Childermass lifted a hand slowly and Aine watched as it shifted through the air, as if it were a leaf carried on a soft autumn breeze towards her neck and cheek. His fingers slid softly from the height of her cheekbone to the length of her neck and they pressed gently into the nape of her neck. He had turned more fully in his chair to face her and the look he wore was not unlike Aine had seen him sport in other less-populated circumstances.

She thought a moment about what she might say next but such contemplations were interrupted as Childermass brought himself closer and used the hand at the back of her head to have her body bridge the distance left between them.

The kiss was not unlike others they had shared, although the knowledge that they were in public left Aine feeling exposed. They did not part to breathe for a longer time than their most recent dalliances and when Childermass pulled back, sliding his hand from her hair, Aine felt as though she had stars in her eyes.

“Oh,” as all she managed as she sat, blinking, when the man she travelled with turned back to take another drink. She did not see the smirk he buried in his mug but he could see the happy blush staining her cheekbones.


End file.
